White Trash 

AND OTHER 

ne=Act Dramas 

EVELYN GREENLEAF SUTHERLAND 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



Chap._f S_^. Copyright No. 

ShelfX%J_Po 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



\ 



•*: 



PO' WHITE TRASH AND 
OTHER ONE-ACT DRAMAS 



PO' WHITE TRASH 

AND OTHER 

One-Act Dramas 



BY 



EVELYN GREENLEAF SUTHERLAND 

CERTAIN OF THE PLAYS BEING WRITTEN IN 
COLLABORATION WITH EMMA SHERIDAN- 
FRY AND PERCY WALLACE MACKAYE 




CHICAGO 

HERBERT S. STONE AND COMPANY 

MDCCCC 









COPYRIGHT 1900, 
HERBERT S. STONE & 



CO 



AUG 4 ijOO 
SFP .10 1900 



At tent 1071 is called to the fact that the 
followmg plays are strictly protected, 
by copyright, from public dramatic 
performance, professional or amateur. 
Permission for their perf ordnance, 
on a moderate royalty, may be secured 
on application to the publishers. 



74455 



TO 

JOHN PRESTON SUTHERLAND 

"who made the HAPP7 SUN- 
SHINE WHERE THESE GREW" 

THEY ARE DEDICATED 

BY 

HIS WIFE. 



CONTENTS 

PAGB 

"^ Po' White Trash 1 

/ In Far Bohemia 35 

x/ The End of the Way 57 

^ A COMEDIE ROYALL 79 

y A Bit op Instruction 103 

"" A Song at the Castle . . . . . . 125 

^ Rohan The Silent 155 

y At the Barricade 187 

Y Galatea of the Toy-Shop 213 



PO' WHITE TRASH 

A STUDY OF A LITTLE-KNOWN 
PHASE OF AMERICAN LIFE 



Po' White Trash 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

SuKE DuRY (of the class known as **po' white 

trash"). 
I) RENT DuRY (her nephew). 
Judge Page. 
Dr. Calhoun Payne. 
Carol Payne (his daughter). 
Sal Hankers. 



Zep Poon 1 ^^ 

MILLY 1 ^'^-'^- 



The place is Georgia. The period is the present. 
The scene is the exterior of Suke Dury's cabin, on 
the edge of Oloochee Swamp. The time is late after- 
noon of a mid-July day. 

The scene is a dilapidated cabin exterior. The 
cabin is set at an angle, R. Jf. It is of logs, icith a 
clay chimney; a single tvindoto ivith a broken shutter, 
half open. In front of it, a rude platform-like 

3 



4 Po' White Trash 

piazza. A rude tench on stage; in front of it^ 
toward R. 2. A lanjo is lying 07i the bench. The 
stage is covered ivith a tuhitish-yelloio cloth,, repre- 
senting hare sand. The back drop a stretch of fiat 
sand^ dotted with clumps of coarse green grass; here 
and there., a tall, dead, fir e-hlackened tree. At L. 8, 
a mast-like, blackened tree-trunk, draped heavily 
with moss. Behind it, there is a narrow path, 
apparently ending loith the swamp. From L. of 
stage, extending into umigs, a thick matted U7ider- 
groioth of lush, green, sivamp-like bushes and plants, 
growing taller as they join iioings. The light is hot, 
intense, yelloio sunlight; almost from rise of curtain, 
hoioever, the light begins to soften toward dusk; first 
growing red, then lilac, then clear violet-purple, then 
dark purple, etc. In front of cabin piazza, R. 3, a 
small iro7i pot, full of red coals a7id luith a branding 
iron stuck dotvn into it. Curtain music, ^''Swanee 
River.''"' Whe7i curtai^i rises, Zep Poon is soundly 
asleep under tree, L. 8. He is a burly negro, in- 
tensely black; in cotton-checked shirt, open at neck; 
cotton overalls, brogans, above ivhich his naked black 
ankles show. Beside him is his broad-hHmmed, 
tattered straw hat. In the silence the locusts are 
heard, intermittently shrilling. After a second or 
ttvo, Zep snores heavily, once or twice, and turns on 
his side, without waking; then snores agam. Enter 
Sal Hankers, from road behind cabin, R. back. She 



Po' White Trash 5 

is dressed in gaudy ^ cheap calico; her dress being 
appareiitly her only garment. Her face and hair are 
of a uniform clay-color. She carries her sun-bonnet 
dangli^ig from its string on her arm. As she comes 
down^ she glances i^idifferently at Zep. She seats 
herself leisurely on bench., R. She takes from her 
pocket a snuff-box and a stick., and dips the stick 
into the box, afterward rubbing it on her teeth. 
After a pause. 

Sal. Siike! Suke! 

{There is again silence. Sal fans herself 
and wipes her face upon her apron. The 
locusts shrill again and Zep snores.) 
Sal. Suke! Suke Dury! Suke! 

(Suke Dury opens door of cabin, ayid stands 

framed in it. She is of SaVs type, but much 

more vivid. Her hair is of deep red. She 

has a rope in her hand, whose broken ends she 

is knotting together.) 

Suke. Save yo' breath. I heard yo'. But the 

calf had split his rope to frazzles an' was makin' fo' 

the swamp, an' I had to ketch him. Swamps ain't 

safe pasturin' for calves. 

Sal. (E.) Ain't safe pasturin' for nobody, when 
such a sun nusses copperheads lively. Look at that 
fool nigger! (Indicates Zep.) Snorin' there on the 
edge of Oloochee Swamp as if snakes wuz as friendly 



6 Po' White Trash 

company as skeeters. Ah reckon if a copperhead 
cam' out a-visitin', that nigger wouldn't never have 
the trouble of wakin' up. 

SuKE. (Comes doiuii C.) Copperheads don't 
come a-visitin' here. Too much sense. It 'ud be a 
safe thing fo' all sorts o' snakes, ef they'd alwuz kep' 
thar distance from this cabin. 

Sal. Eeckon the swamp things 'lowed this cabin 
wuz theirn by right o' squattin'. Plumb twenty 
years they hed it to theirselves, while you 'uns was 
yon, in the mountains, an' the cabin shet. 

SuKE. Twenty years come August. It wor sun- 
up, nineteen year ago, that my sister Pen an' I locked 
that cabin do' behin' us. It wor sun-up, when my 
sister Pen's boy an' I opened that do' a month ago. 
But the swamp things hev hed a chance to study on 
one thing sence we're back again, — an' that is, whar 
Suke Dury bides no kind o' snake don't find it 
healthy. All the snakes in Georgia ain't learnt that 
yit ; but they will ; — they will ; — give me time. 

Sal. Doctor been here yet? 

Suke. What cVyo"^ know 'bout Doctor's comin'? 

Sal. Luddy! Luddy! But yo' he a wild cat! 
'Twuz Miss Carol told me yo' asked her paw to drap 
in on Drent when he was a-passin'. Drent po'ly? 

Suke. [C.) I don' know. But I'm feared o' 
him. Gord! He's too like his maw! He's too like 
his maw ! She went sudden, yo' know, my sister Pen. 



Po' White Trash 7 

One day she said, ''Suke, I've got a mis'ry in my 
side!" — an her face went gray as that moss. . . . 
Next day, — we buried her. 

Sal. (E.) Drent ben a-havin' a miz'ry? 

SuKE. He don' say so. But las' week, one day 
he'd been a-singin' for Miss Carol, he come into the 
cabin, — an' his face hit went all gray, — gray as that 
moss, gray as — God-a-mighty ! I thought 'twuz my 
heart a-stoppin' 'stid o' his. So I asked Miss Carol 
would she ask her paw to look at Drent, when he 
wuz a-passin'. 

Sal. Folks say as daddyless young 'uns is most 
always death-struck young. 

SuKE. Who's say in' daddyless young 'uns? Yo' 
chitterin' fool! Who 

Sal. {Rises mid ties on honnet very deliherafely .) 
Thar ye be, wild-cattin' agin ! I'm moughty puzzled, 
yo' sister Pen's heart didn't stop fo' ifc did, with yo' 
wild-cattin' round from sun-up twell dark. Daddy- 
less young 'uns? D'ye spose folks has forgot when 
you-all clared out, nineteen year ago, yo' sister Pen 
kerried a daddyless young 'un with her? (Crosses 
toward L.) What of it? Happens to jolenty! Po* 
white trash hasn't no business with sech eyes as Pen 
Dury's were, — eyes big an' trustin' as a baby calf's ! 

SuKE. Ef I don' kill yo', it's because I've got 
somebody else to settle with first ! {8uhe turns in to 
cabin.) 



8 Po' White Trash 

Sal. Quit wild-cattin' ! Suke! Suke! Tell 
Dr. Payne ef he be so bleegin' as to stop up on my 
ol' man, when he's passin' home? My ol' man he 
said Jim Wash was a liar, yestiddy; an' Jim Wash'll 
be at the sto' to-day, when my ol' man gits thar. I 
reckon my ol' man '11 be needin' the doctor moughty 
bad, after he's met up with Jim Wash! 

{Sal tu7'ns to exit as she came, heJiind cabin, 
R. lack; she comes violently into contact with 
Milly, who is just entering. Sulce tu^^ns at 
the collision and Milly^s noisy exclamations, 
Milly is a very Uach young negress, neatly 
dressed y and iv earing a notably pretty and 
fashionable hat.) 

Milly. Name o' Jerusalem! Huccum yo' knock 
de bruf out'n a pusson dat-a-way! 

{Exit Suke into cabin.) 

Sal. Yo' breath '11 last longer, ef yo' keep out'n 
yo' betters' way! 

Milly. Betters! {Exit Sal. Milly backs down 
stage, calling after her.) Name o' Palestine! 
Betters! Talkin' to a quality nigger dat po' white 
trash wuz her betters! Po' white trash! {As she 
backs, she stumbles over Zep, u)ho sits ujy, ruMing 
Ms head bewilder edly.) Name o' glory! Jordan am 



Po' White Trash 9 

a hard road to trabbel dis ebenin' for sho' ! Huccum 

dat 

• Zep. {Striking out viciously.) Git out o' this, 
yo' dog-gone ol' mule! 

MiLLY. {Dodging Mow.) Mule! 
V- Zep. {Struggling to Ms feet and lowing and 
ducking obsequiously, ivith jiourislies of Ms liat.) 0, 
Miss Carol, I done ax yo' pardon. I done reckoned 
my ol' mule wuz kickin' me to wake up, lak he do, 
when he done 

MiLLY. Fus' de mule, an' den Miss Carol! 
Habn't yo' no eyes, yo' fool nigger Zep Poon, or have 
de sun done scotched 'em out? 

Zep. {Dazed.) Dat ar Miss Carol's hat ! I done 
swar dat ar Miss Carol's hat! Huccum Miss Carol 
she done ain't under dat hat? 

MiLLY. Miss Carol she'll nebber be under dat hat 
no mo'. Miss Carol done gib me dat hat fo' a 
plightin' gif ' ! 

Zep. Plightin' gif ' ! Yo'! Name ob Israel ! Ef 

yo done gone plight yo'self {Takes out razor from 

overalls.) 

MiLLY. Yo' done gone crunkled! 'Tain't me 
wot's plighted. But ef 'twuz me 'twouldn't be to no 
nigger dat don' know me from a mule! Miss Carol's 

done plighted 

-Zep. It's Marsr George Payne! It's de Jedge's 
son! I ben a-studyin' huccome Marsr George done 



10 Po' White Trash 

quit coon-huntin' Sundays ! He done gone huntin' 
'nother kind o' coon! {Chuckles.) Well, I's done, 
fo'afacM 

MiLLY. Ya'as. Miss Carol she done come to de 
Jedge's to-day, fo' Marse George to show her to we- 
all; and all de quality done he hid to the Jedge's this 
ebenin*, and dere'll he de higges' doin's, and de 
higges' dancin', an' de higges' singin', and de higges' 
eatin' an' de higges' drinkin' 

Zep. {Mechanically echoing her ecstatic tone.) 
De higges' eatin', andde higges' drinkin', an' — 'pears 
like ter me de Jedge done say I wuz to go up to de 
place dis day. Ya'as ; de Jedge he sutney did say 

MiLLY. Ya'as, he sutney did say go to the place 
an' clean de well; an' whar's de well? An' whar 
wuz yo^ 9 Look at yo'! An' it's plumh sundown! 
Clean de well ! 

Zep. De Jedge done know hit my day fer plowin' ! 

MiLLY. Day fo' plowin'! Day fo' snorin'! I 
done hyerd de Jedge cussin' 'hout dat well, this 
ehenin' after dinner. He done say yo' hadn't done 
no wuk fo' a week, an' he done 'fraid yo' done got 
'ligion ! 

{Suhe ejiters from cabin and stands looking 
out toward the swamp ^ shading her eyes with 
her hand.) 
. Zep. Got 'ligion! Name o' de Lawd! Got 
'ligion hefo' Christmas! I 



Po' White Trash ii 

SuKE. Hold your tongues ! 

{There is a pause of a second.) 
SuKE. Wuzn't that my boy Drent's whistle off 
yon, in de swamp? 

(Another pause; a soft, flute-like tremulo 
whistle cojnes faintly from the direction of the 
swamp.) 

MiLLT. I reckon, Suke, 



SuKE. Dury's my name — to niggers ! 

(Milly tosses her head and moves toward 
hach L.) 

— »Zep. {With a flourishing how.) I reckon. Miss 
Dury, dat wuzn't Drent. Reckon 'twuz a mockin* 
bird. Moughty puzzlin' fo' sho' to tell Drent f om 
a mockin' bird when he's whistlin' ; an' when Drent 
sing, it's moughty puzzlin' fo' to tell him f'om a 
angel ! 

Milly. {Turning.) Ya'as. I reckon dat's why 
Miss Carol she sent me fo' to fetch Drent to de 
Jedge's place dis ebenin' fo' to sing fo' de quality. 

Suke. Carol Payne sent yo' to fetch my boy to 
go up an' sing for quality folks, — up to the Jedge's, 
whar she's a-visitin'? 

Milly. {With a mock curtsey.) Dat's hit. Miss 
Dury! 



12 Po' White Trash 

SuKE. Then tote yo'self back an' tell Miss Carol 
w'en she wants Drent Dury to sing fo' her, she 
carn't send no niggers — she kin com herself! Tell 
her I said so! {Exit into cabin. ^ 

MiLLY. De sassiness oh po' white trash 

{Br. Payne enters from beliind cabin^ R. 
lack. He is fat and jovial; lie carries Ms 
saddle-hags across his arm.) 

Dr. p. An' the impudence o' niggers! Gloryin' 
round in that hat I paid fo'teen good dollars fo', 
down in Atlanta! 



{Exit Milly, hridling^ L. bach. Dr. P. 
himself on bench^ piiffi^^W ^^^'^ blowing; tosses 
down his saddle-bags; fans himself ivith Pan- 
ama hat. Zep approaches him^ bowing and 
scraping.) 

Dr. p. Lucky it's dusking down! Plaggon it! 
If that sun had stayed up much longer, I should have 
had to be taken home in one of my own bottles! 
{Noticing Zej).) Well, well, what do you want, 
confound you? 

^ Zep. Ya'as sah. Please Doctor, sah, ef yo' could 
give me a little sumpin' for a pow'ful po'ly feelin' 

Dr. p. What is it, eh. A miz'ry in yo' back, or 
a sinkin' in yo' head, or a conjure all over yo'? 
Speak out ! 



Po' White Trash 13 

-^ Zep. Ef yo' please, Doctor, sah, I'se been 
siifferin' pow'ful dese days, wid water on my 
stomach, sah! 

Dk. p. Water on yo' stomach, eh? — water on — 
{Bursts into chuchling laughter.) Well, it must 
he sufferin', fo' a fac', to introduce water to a 
stomach tanned with tanglefoot whisky! — Here! 
(FumUes in loochet and tosses him a coin.) That's 
the prescription you're after, I reckon, eh? 

Zep. De Lawd bless an' fumigate yo', Marsr 
Doctor, sah, — de Lawd bless an' fumigate yo'! 

{JEJxit Zep hehind caMn^ hack R.) 

Dr. p. Well, with niggers an' po' white trash, a 
doctor does have a cheerful time, fo' a fac'! . . . 
What's that Drent Dury a-doin', keepin' me waitin'? 
0! Drent Dury! Drent! 

{8uhe enters from caMn.) 

SuKE. Drent ain't hyar. Doctor Payne, sir. I'm 
done heart-sick that he don' come, sir, not since last 
night. 

Dr. p. Ain't here? Sends fo' a doctor, an' ain't 
here? Well, fo' a fac' ! 

{Rises in wrath and begins to pick up his 
saddle-dags.) 

SuKE. ef yo' please. Dr. Payne, sir! Drent he 
must be home right soon. He's 



14 Po' White Trash 

Dr. p. He's a worthless young nubbin' — that's 
what Drent Dury is! Wants a doctor, does he? — 
What fo'? Not his lungs, I'll swear ! Didn't I hear 
him singin' las' night, passin' out a-coon-huntin', — 
singin' like a low-down, dirty, no 'count little — little 
cherubim and seraphim? Singin' like — {Dre7ifs voice 
is heard outside singing the first verse of '-''My Old 
Kentuchy Home.'''') — singin' like — that^ confound 
him! Now who'd say that a busy doctor'd be fool 
enough to waste his time 

(Drent enters. He is dressed in ragged 
hrown jea7i trousers^ a dull blue shirty open at 
the throaty and a ragged hat. He carries a 
shot-gun. A dilapidated game-hag is slung 
across him. He moves listlessly amd is pale.) 

Dr. p. Fool enough to waste his time 

huntin' up 

Drent. Why, I reckon anybody 'd say so, that 
knowed yo', Doctor. 

{Suke goes down to meet Drent. Under 
pretense of talcing off his game-hag to exaynine 
it for game^ she caresses him., with awkward 
tenderness.') 

SuKE. Made up yo' mind to steer in for some 
vittles at last, did yo', yo' louty young vagabond? 
{Holds up game-hag.) Empty, I swar! Empty as 



Po' White Trash 15 

yo' fool head ! {She carries Ms gun and game-hag 
up to the porch. He sits on step of piazza^ listless 
and sullen.) 

De. p. That's a woman! That's a woman! 
Honin' her heart out for a fellow when he's ojff, 
and then givin' him the devil the minute he heaves 
in sight ! 

Dkekt. {To SuJce.) It's yo' own fault. Yo' 
know I'd stay away while that iron was heatin' thar. 
I'm no butcher an' no calf-brander, an' I won't 
stay whar I'm hounded to do it. 

SuKE. I'll do the brandin' then. {Takes iron 
from pot.) Yo've the heart of a calf yo'self ! {Exit 
behind cabin.) 

Drent. Mebbe. An' mebbe the skin of a calf; 
an' mebbe that's how I kin guess how a brandin' iron 
feels. 

De. p. Dut yo' don't know how a coon feels, eh? 

Dee2!^t. Don't I? 

De. p. Well, yo' shoot 'em, all th' same. 

Deekt. Do I? Whar's the coon, Doctor? 
{Shows empty game-bag.) 

De. p. Didn't see a coon, then, eh? 

DeeisTT. 0, I saw a coon, right enuf ! 

De. p. Too lazy to hunt him, then, eh? 

Deent. Hunt him? Hunt? — ! Name o' judg- 
ment. {Bursts into a long^ loto, lazy laugh.) Hunt! 
Doctor, there isn't one of the boys that went coon- 



1 6 Po' White Trash 

huntin' las' night, that ken set down after he's got 
up, or git up after he's set down! Land! I reckon 
the boys '11 remember last night's hunt! 'Twuz the 
sort o' a hunt they wouldn't a-got out'n any coon but 
me! {Laughs again.) 

Dr. p. Any coon but You're going loony! 

{Sits 071 piazza.) 

Deent. P'raps you'll say loony, Doctor, fo' a 
fac', when I've told yo'. It wuz this-a-way. Me an' 
Erazzles, — Frazzles is my dog, yo' know. Doctor, jes' 
an ornery no- 'count yeller dog like me, — but he kin 
f oiler his master; an' when he's tol' to hoi' on, dat 
dog he don' let go. Well, me and Frazzles wuz way 
ahead o' the other dogs, an' we see the moss on an 
old pine swing — swing — lak the wind struck it ; but 
there warn't no wind. An' I says to Frazzles, "Sh!" 
an' ho sh'd. An' we crep' along — still as a copper- 
head creeps — crep' and crep' along to that there 
tree; an' Frazzles' eyes got bigger an' yallerer, an' his 
back jes' quivered lak as if every hair hed come alive, 
but Frazzles never yipped a yip. . . . An' we crep' 
— an' we come to the ol' pine — an' we peeked up 
through the moss, — and thar was the coon. Lord! 
Doctor, — thar was the coon, — crouchin' and scrough- 
lin' together, dead sick with the smell o' the dog, — 
a-crouchin' an' a-scroughlin' an' a-lookin' — an' a- 
lookin . . . An Frazzles says, — 'ithout ever yippin' 
a yip — ' ' Throw him down ! — throw him down ! ' ' — An' 



Po' White Trash 17 

I says, *'Yon bet!" — And I shinned up that tree, a- 
grippin' my gun — an' I got on the branch fair below 

him, — and then 

Dr. R Well! Well! And then— 



Drent. An' then. Doctor, I saw that coon's 
eyes. — I saw that coon's eyes. Doctor, I — I never 
saw a coon's eyes befo'. I reckon — I reckon — thar 
wouldn't be so much hurtin' done in this world ef 
jes' befo' yo' hurted yo' saw the thing's eyes! An' I 
looked at him — an he looked at me, — an' his eyes 
said, "Be yo' goin' to kill me? Be yo' goin' to kill 
me?" Thar worn't no trees — no sky — no nothin' — 
jes' only that coon's eyes. **It's on'y cowards kill 
what can't fight," they says. *'It's on'y devils kill 
fo' fun," they says. Everythin' thet hed ever been 
'fraid — an' I've been 'fraid! — looked out o' that 
coon's eyes. Everythin' thet hed ever got beat, — 
an' I've got beat! — looked out of that coon's eyes. 
Everythin' that ever been hurt, — and God-a-mighty ! 
I've been hurt! — looked out of that coon's eyes. 
"Be ye goin' to kill me?" they sez. "Be ye goin' to 
kill me?" An' I flinged my gun's far's she'd flew, 
an' I sez, "No, yo' mean, scared, hunted critter, yo'! 
I'll be damned if I kill yo'!" 

De. p. Yo' blamed little fool! 

{Dr. Payne wipes Ms eyes surreptitiously^ 
and Mows Ms nose ostentatiously. Brent 



1 8 Po' White Trash 

takes up his lanjo and idly strums as lie talks, 
some bars of "i/t/ Old Kentucky Home.'''' Dr. 
Payne sways and heats time to it, uncon- 
sciously; stopping himself whenever he re- 
members it, with evident irritation; but 
occasionally, despite himself, humming a word 
or two of the song in a grumbling bass.) 

Deent. But yo' see, Doctor, the boys done hev 
to have their hunt; so, wal. Frazzles he done folio' 
me, coon or no coon; an' the other dogs, they done 
folio' Frazzles, scent or no scent; and the boys they 
done follow the dogs . . . an' they had huntin' a- 
plenty, Doctor, they did, fo' a fac' ! 

Dr. p. And whar was the good of it all, you 
* 'possum an' de coon I possum an' decoon!" {Hum- 
ming words of song.) Doggone it, will yo' stop that 
banjo? . . . Whar was the good 

Drei^t. Good? Why, Doctor, the coon done got 
his life — an' the boys done got their hunt — an' I, — I 
done found out there was one thing on this yearth 
mizzibler than po' white trash! 

Dr. p. "By de meadow, de hill, and de " 

[Humming words of song.) Damn it all, will you 
either quit that song or sing it? 

(Drent sings, lightly and idly, but with 
searching pathos, the words: 



Po' White Trash 19 

We^U hunt no mo' foi* de possum an^ de coon^ 

By de medder^ de hill an^ de sho"*; 

WeHl sing no mo'' by the light 0' the moon 

On de bench by de oV cabin do''; 

De days go by^ lak a shadow on de heart, 

Wid sorrow whar once was delight; 

The time hit come w''en oV friends dey hev to part; 

Den my oV Kentucky home^ good-nightl) 

Dr. p. {Who has listened with much emotion!) 
Listen to yoM Listen to yo'! With a voice that 
pulls the mockin' birds out o' the swamp, and sets an 
ol ' fool doctor sloppin' over at both eyes ! With a 
voice that might make yo' the foremost citizen o' 
Georgia, sir, — the foremost citizen o' Georgia! (Ris- 
ing.') An' then look at yo'! Look at yo'! What 
are yo', sir? What are yo'? 

Drent. Po' white trash, I reckon, Doctor, — jes 
po' white trash! 

Dr. p. Po' white trash! When if yo' had one 
blink of honest ambition, there isn't a man of us 
wouldn't be proud to give yo' a leg up! When if 
yo' had one ounce of man in yo', yo'd stand, in 
three years, where nobody 'd remember that yo' never 
knew yo' daddy, — {Drent starts, laying down his 
banjo) and nobody'd remember that yo' mother 

Drent. {Rising to his feet.) Hold it there, ef 
yo' please, Doctor. What my maw was, I reckon I 



20 Po' White Trash 

know better 'n yo'' ; an' what my maw is^ I reckon 
neither of us '11 ever know, unless we're better men! 

Dk. p. {After a pause^ impetuously gripping his 
hand.) Dury, I ask yo' pardon! 

Dkent. Never mind, Doctor. Of co'se there 
ain't nothin' po' white trash cayn't hear. Only I 
reckon — I reckon — thar's some things quality folks 
cayn't say. 

{He staggers dizzily for a moment.^ tuith his 
hand to his heart.) 

Dr. p. {Throwing his arm around Drent.) 
What are yo' at, boy? What's wrong? 

Drejstt. {Releasi7ig himself and laughing con- 
fusedly.) Aw, nothin', Doctor, nothin'! Only fo' 
one fool minute every thin' seemed duskin' — an' 
stoppin' — but I'm all right now — all right. {Tahes 
up hanjo and tremulously tunes it.) 

Dr. p. Everything dusking and stopping, eh? 
Drop that fool thing! {Drent lays doimi hanjo.) 
Give me yo' wrist! {Counts pulse.) Eh? — Hm-m. 

So thaVs what yo' aunt Keep still a minute! 

{He hneels leside Drent., with his ear over DrenVs 
heart. Then lie rises, with a face of serious concern., 
and begins to fumble in his saddle-bags.) Whar's my 
stethoscope? Day of wrath! Whar's my stethoscope? 
Damned if I don't believe that Simmons baby got it! 
I gave it to him to play with, to stay his yawp, 



Po' White Trash 2i 

while {He tahes a pliial from Ms medicine 

case.) Put out yo' tongue! {Standing in front of 
Dre7it, he lets a drop or tivo fall from tlie phial on 
his tongue.) Now, stay whar yo' are, — d'ye hear? — 
till I come back with that stethoscope. I won't be 
half an hour. Stay whar yo' are, I say! Stay whar 
yo' are, an' keep quiet. Don't let anything excite 
yo' 

Drent. 'Tain't a moughty excitin' neighbor- 
hood. Doctor! 

Dr. p. So much the better. I'll be back in half 
an hour an' go through you good! {He hustles dozen 
stage; and then comes hesitatingly back., lays his hand 
on DrenVs shoulder and holds out the other hand 
to hi?}i.) Yo' don't bear grudge to an old fool's 
yawp, eh, lad? 

Dreht. Lord, Doctor, ef everybody yawped your 
tune, this world'd play good music! 

Dr. p. Quiet's the word, then, yo' young rascal! 
If I find you've moved a foot from that gallery, I'll 
give yo' a dose yo'll taste fo' a month ! 

{He bustles otit, behind cabin, R. bach. It 
is 7tow soft, violet dusk. A feio great bright 
stars shine, bach, above the sandy levels. 
From the sivamp there comes, eerie and minor, 
the lo?ig, shivering cry of the night owl. 
Drent picks icpo?i his banjo again, tvith a list- 



22 Po' White Trash 

lesSy tired sigh. He softly Jitims **Lorenay*^ 
* ^picking'* ' a light accompaniment. After a few 
seconds pause, enter Suke from caM?i, the 
branding iron in her hand.) 

Suke. By the time I ketched that fool calf, 
the iron wuz cold. (She looks at Drent, wistfully.) 
Ain't yo' comin' in fo' a bite o' corn pone, Honey? 
{Puts iron into pot.) 

Drekt. Naw, Aunt Suke. 

Suke. No' fo' a mug o' coffee, Honey? Hit's 
moughty good an' strong. 

Drent. Not now, Aunt Suke. 

Suke. Ef yo' don't eat nothin', yo' no 'count 
critter, huccome yo'U have a voice to go sing fo' the 
quality? 

{Carol Payne enters from the swamp-path, 
L. 3. Suke sees her and straightens up 
fiercely.) 

Drent. What quality folks be thar' a-honin' 
arter my singin'? 

Carol. I reckon, Drent, she means me. 

{Drent springs to his feet, snatching off his 
hat.) 

Drent. Name o' Gawd! Whar'd yo' come 
from, Miss Carol? 



Po White Trash 23 

Cakol. Down the swamp path hyar. An' I 
wished I hadn't when I saw how fast 'twas duskin'. 

Deekt. Fo' de Lord*s sake, Miss Carol, don' do 
sech loony things no mo'. De swamp path! 

{He unconsciously presses his hand against 
his heart. Exit S^ike into caMn, after a long 
unfriendly stare at Carol.) 

Cakol. (Crosses R. toward hench.) The swamp 
path's so much shorter, Drent! 

Dkent. Short ain't always safe. Miss Carol. 
Now it's July, thet thar swamp's just rank with 
copperheads. Ah don' folio' thet path no mo'! 

Oaeol. {Seating herself on hench.) Well, you 
shall take me back to the Page place by just what 
path yo' like, Drent, if you'll promise to sing for me, 
when we get there. 

Dbekt. Sing fo' yo'? Do yo' mean that, Miss 
Carol? 

Carol. Of course I mean it. I'm going to show 
— to show some people at the Page place that I'm not 
to be laughed at when I say yo' can put mo' honey 
in one sung line than — some folks — can in a week's 
pretty speeches. 

Drent. Yo' said that — o' my singin' — Miss Carol? 

Cakol. And I meant it, Drent. Ever since yo' 



24 Po' White Trash 

sang that song fo' me and paw, that Sunday night 
out here in the moonlight 

{He catches up Ms hanjo as if in a trance^ 
Ms eyes fixed passionately on her face^ and 
bursts into the song — 

Her hrow is like the snow drifts 
Her throat is like the swan^ 
And her face is e^en the fairest 
That e'er the sun shone on; 
That e'er the sun shone on, 
And she^s all the world to me, 
And for honnie Annie Laurie 
I would lay me down and die /) 

Cakol. Yes, — like that! Like that! 

Deejstt. Miss Carol, I'd sing fo' yo' like that, 
f 'om moonrise twell sun-up. Miss Carol, ef yo' asked 
me to sing when I was a-lyin' under the swamp-grass, 
I reckon my voice would pull my dead lips open! 
Wen yo' says, "Sing," I feel as the mockin' birds 
feel, when the big, sof ' wind lifts their wings, and 
somethin' in it melts way down into 'em — 0, so sweet ! 
so sweet! — an' they know that it's the spring! 
{Frightened at Ms vehemence, Carol rises a7id stands 
facing him, as he rushes 07i.) But 0! Miss Carol! 
Yo' don' mean yo' want me to sing to yo' under no 
roof. I couldn't do it. Miss Carol! I couldn't do 



Po' White Trash 25 

it no more than the mockin' bird sings when yo' 
cage him! Gimme jes' the moonlight an' the stars — 
an' yo' — ?/o' 

{Carol crosses L. She speaks timidly and 
bewilder edly.) 

Cakol. But yo' cayn't expect all the other folks, 
Drent, to come outside — in the night air, 

DKEi^T. The— other— folks? 

Carol. Yes, yes; the other folks! Don't yo' 
understand that I'm as kin' yo' to come up to the 
Page place to sing at my pledgin' party, — my 
pledgin' to George Page, the Judge's son? 

Drent. Yo' — pledgin' — yo' an' George Page — 
Naw! I didnH understand! I won't sing! I wonH 
sing! Let him sing for yo'— let him sing — damn 
him! 

(He throws down his hanjo and buries his 
face m Ms bent arm^ against the piazza-post. ) 

Carol. I wouldn't have you sing — now. How 
dare you? I was a fool to come ; George told me I 
shouldn't come, and that's why I came, I reckon. 
But it's fo' the last time, Drent Dury! 

(As she moves toward the siuamp-path., Drent 
suddenly starts erect; and after listening a 
second^ leaps tigerishly toiuard her.) 



26 Po' White Trash 

Drent. Come back hyar ! Come back hyar, I say ! 
Carol. He's crazy! 

{She starts 171 terror mto the swamp path. 
Drent leaps into it ahead of her; and flings 
her, very roughly, far toward centre of stage. 
He is hidden from sight in the wings. Carol 
hursts into a passion of terrified crying, hold- 
ing her arm where Drent clutched it.) 

Carol. 0! He's crazy! 0! He'll kill me! He 
hurt me so! He hurt me so! (Tremblingly puts up 
sleeve to looh at arm.) 0, what shall I do! What 
shall I 

(Enter Judge Page from back R.; an erects 
strikingly handsome and dignified man of 
forty five. Carol, tuith a cry of joyful relief, 
flings herself into his arms.) 

Carol. 0! I'm so thankful! Judge Page, 
I'm so thankful ! 

Judge. (Soothing her.) I thought my son's little 
sweetheart was to remember my name was "father"! 
Child! Dear child! What has happened to you? 

Carol. Judge Page! Drent Dury's crazy ! 

(Drent enters from swamp-path. He is 
ghastly pale. He limps painfully and has his 
hand tightly pressed against his leg, just 
above the knee.) 



Po' White Trash 2^ 

Cakol. Drenfc Dury's crazy! Or if he isn't 
crazy, he's — he's luorse! 

Judge. What do you mean? {He speaks sternly. 
Keeping Ms left arm around Carol, he grips Ms 
stick in Ms right hand and advances a step.) 

Caeol. Judge, he — said such things — such 
queer things — such 

Judge. You damned rascal! 

Carol. And when I was going, he jumped and 
caught me and flung me and hurt me. {Sobbing, ) 
He hurt me so ! 

Drent. Fo' Gawd! I didn't go fer to hurt yo', 
Miss Carol' fo' Gawd, I didn't! But I had to be 
quick. I reckon you didn't hear that copperhead 
hiss — an' I did. 

Carol. {Spri7iging from the Judge'' s arm.) 
Copperhead? 

Drent. He was fair in the middle o' the path. 

Judge. And you — took his bite? 

Drent. I reckon. 

Carol. 0, no! 0, what shall I do! 0, yo' let 
yourself be snake-struck instead of me, — yo' po' 
brave fellow! Yo' poor, poor, dear, brave fellow! 

{She puts her hands upon his shoulders, and 
impulsively leans her cheek to his.) 

Drent. Brave — dear {He bends very lightly 



28 Po' White Trash 

and timidly sidewise^ and hrushes her hand with 
his lips.) Gawd bless that snake, Miss Carol! 

Judge. Carol ! George is waiting with the horses 
yonder down the road. Quick, child, quick! The 
doctor ! For his life ! For his life ! Bring him in 
time! 

Carol. He must he here in time! Drent! 
poor fellow! He shall he here in time! {Rushes^ 
^veeping., out R. lack.) 

Judge. My lad — I 

Drekt. {Limps painfully across to R. and tahes 
the branding iron from, the pot.) I know what's to 
he done, Jedge, and 1 reckon I can do it. Sh ! — I 
hear Aunt Suke comin'. I cayn't be bothered with 
a woman while I'm doin' this. D'yo' hear me? 
Don't let Aunt Suke know I {Limps painfully off 
R. back.) 

{Suke rushes in from cabin.) 

.Suke. Who's that I heard a-screamin'? Fo' here? 
YO'? Whar's Drent? D'yo' hear me? Marston 
Page, I'm axin' yo' whar's Drent? Whar's Pen 
Dury's boy? Whar's yo^ son? 

Judge. My — son? Woman, are you mad? 

Suke. Mad? Yes! Mad as the copperhead 
that's bode his time to strike! That's why I've kept 
away from yo' all these months, Marston Page, — 'cos 
I knew ef once I set my eyes on yo' I should strike 



Po' White Trash 29 

fo' my time! Time or not, I strike now! Yo' son! 
I say yo' son! Yo' SON, that Pen Dury mothered 
twenty year ago ! 

Judge. I never dreamed — I thought 

SuKE. That he was mme, mebbe? Not I! Pen 
learned lessons fo' us both! Not mine! Hern! 
Hern an' yonrn! Hern an' yourn, that my sister 
carried with her when we locked this cabin do' 
behin' us that night yo' sailed fo' Europe, twenty 
yeai' ago. 

Judge. I never dreamed, I tell you — a youthful 
folly {Sinks on be?ich.) 

SuKE. No woman ever yet took "youthful folly" 
as excuse fo' a woman's ruin — an' I reckon you'll 
find Hell won't! Pen Dury stood between yo' an' 
me while she lived, an' kept my hands off yo'; but 
she's gone now, an now yo'll reckon a reckonin', 
Marston Page — with her son, an' with me/ 

(Drent coines from hehind the cabin. A 
tlood-stained bandage is bound about his knee. 
He stands listening.) 

SuKE. Y'o' thought it was all over, yo' see — that 
*'youthful folly!" Yo' thought nobody but Gor-a- 
mighty and some po' white trash would ever know 
how, when a po' girl said no to shame — though yo' 
wrapped it up in plenty o' money, — though her own 
heart tore itself out to say yes, fo' she loved yo' so, — 



30 Po' White Trash 

yo' stopped a man, hyar, on the road one day and yo' 
said: *'Hyar! If I give yo' fifty dollars, will yo' 
go into that cabin an' say some marriage words over 
me'n that gal, an' ask no questionsV An' he took 
the fifty dollars, an' he came! An' yo' thought yo'd 
tricked my girl with a no -account pedlar an' a 
devilish lie! . . . But he worn't no pedlar! 'Twas 
2/0' the devil tricked, an' not my sister Pen! That 
man wor a circuit rider — d'yo' hear, Marston Page? 
A travellin' parson — an' the marriage-words he spoke 
that day made my sister Pen yo' lawful wife! 

Judge. Great God! {Rising.) 

SuKE. God cayn't change it! {8he hrealcs into 
a wild laugh.) Look at him! Look at him! I 
reckon the devil's pet joke is watchin' a man pay 
for a sin he meant to do, — and slipped up on ! 

Judge. And you mean, woman, — ^you mean 

SuKE. ( Tears paper from the bosom of her gown. ) 
I mean that's my sister Pen's marriage certificate, 
that she never let me touch while she lived, and that 
I took from her dead breast! I mean yo' fine lady 
wife is what yo' fine lady friends called my dead 
sister! I mean that yo' son George an' not yo' son 
Drent is daddyless! I mean that here's the paper 
that gives what I've ached and choked fo' fo' twenty 
years — an' now let me see yo' git it from me! 

Dkent. ( Comes behind her and S7iatches the paper 
from her hand.) I reckon I kin do that. 



Po' White Trash 31 

SUKE. Drent! {She moves hach as though to 
willingly resign her vengeance to him.) 

Dkent. {Puts the paper iiito the fire-pot^ ram- 
ming it down with the branding -iron.) This yer fire 
has burnt out one snake-sting to-day ; I reckon it can 
burn out another ! 

Judge. My boy — I 

{8ulce springs at him., tigress-lihe: he faces 
her imperiously; she shrinks before his look.') 

Drent. Not that, Jedge. I don't take that 
word from yo' till I know whether my maw has 
forgived yo'. 

SuKE. Yo' maw! Yo' little cur! An' you 
burnin' the words that'd sweeten her name! 

Drent. I reckon where my maw is, her name 
don't need no sweetenin'. . . . It's all right, Jedge. 
... It takes mo'n a paper to make quality out o' 
po' white trash. . . . Marsr George he's well enough 
. . . an' he'll better . . . 'cos she loves him. . . . 
He wouldn't like to be no man's son. / haven't. 
. . . I'd rather . . I'd rather sleep. . . . Lay me 
down an' . . . {Sings.) Lay me down and die. 
. . . {Staggers to tench.) 

SuKE. "What's got him? {Rushes to him.) 

Judge. He was snake-strnck, woman, — I tell 
you, he was snake-struck in the swamp-path. . . . 



32 Po' White Trash 

I thought the burning — . . . Let me look at his 
eyes ! . . . Are the pupils narrowing? Let me look ! 
SuKE. His eyes? . . . Snake-struck! . . . Snake- 
struck! . . . Gawd! Why don't yo' get the doctor? 
Why — his eyes? I can't see. I'll fotch a torch. 
. . . The Doctor, I say! Do yo' want me to kill 
yo'? The doctor! 

{Judge Page rushes out.) 

SuKE. Let me see yo' eyes, Honey. . . . Let 

me Keep on singin', cayn't yo', Honey? 

Lawd, Lawd! Keep on singin'! . . . I'll fetch a 
torch! I'll fetch a torch! Honey! Keep on 
singin' ! 

(Suke rushes into cabin. Drent rises stag- 
geringly.) 

Drent. I'd have liked to have singed for her — 
Maw, — but ef yo' say it's time — to — git — ter 

sleep 

(Sings very faintly — 

ril hunt no mo'' fo'' de possum an"* de coon^ 

By de medder^ de hill an'' de sho^ ; 

im sing no mo"* hy de light oh de moon 

On de bench by de oV cabin do'' ; 

De days go by., like a shadder on de hearty 

Wid sorrow whar once was delight; 

De time hit come — luhen — 



Po' White Trash 33 

{Falls backward, across the hench, with his 
dead face upturned in the moonlight. After 
a pause Suke's voice is heard,— '' Huccum ye 
stop singin\ Honey?''' Suhe rushes in, hold- 
ing a flaring pine-hnot above her head. She 
sweeps the torch loiu, and stares into his eyes. 
Then she sweeps the torch dotvnward, in com- 
plete reversal, and if s flame flickers and dies.) 
SUKE. Gor-a-Mighty! . . . Gor-a-Mighty ! 

(She flings herself in a passion of thick sob- 
bing doiv7i across his body.) 



(Curtain.) 



IN FAR BOHEMIA 



35 



In Far Bohemia 



CHAEACTERS REPRESENTED. 

Alec McLaren. 
Kareit Demar. 
Mrs. Pennypacker. 

The scene is Alec McLaren's lodging room, in 
Mrs. Pennypacker's house. The time is midnight 
of a stormy November night. 

The scene is a large^ hare room in a city lodging- 
house. A fire is turning on hearth^ R. C. A couch 
is drawn up hefore it with a pillow or tiuo covered in 
bright chintz, and a dilapidated huffalo rohe throion 
over it. A table., C, is littered with booJcs^ news- 
papers^ pipes., etc. A battered arm-chair stands 
beside it. Other chairs in various stages of disrepair 
stand about the room. There is a id all- cupboard., ivith 
doors left., bach. At the left., bach., a large., low luin- 
doio ivith curtain half draiun on its string. The 

*This play was written in collaboration with Mrs. 
Emma Sheridan-Fry. 

37 



38 In Far Bohemia 

walls are ornamented with rough shetches^ 
from illustrated papers^ etc.^ unframed; a pair of 
gloves and of foils; pipe rach^ etc. On a row of hooTcs^ 
back., left., hang various fancy costumes, odd hats., etc. 
A door^ L. Jf. As the curtain rises the wind is 
heard shrieking without; the door is pushed open and 
Mrs. Pennypacker, a thin, gaudily-dressed CocJc7iey, 
enters. She carries a candle. She is speaki7ig to 
some one on the stairs luithout. 

Mrs. p. I 'o;:>e, — I sy, I ^ope as bein' mysiilf a 
lydy, I shouldn't never ask no lydy to do no think 
that didn't fit a lydy ; an' when I says to you, Miss 
Demar, Come into Mr. McLaren's room for a rest 
an' a warm, you can be thoro-wahly sure as Mr. 
McLaren ain't 

(Karen Demar staggers tn on the verge of 
fainting. Mrs. Pennypacker catches her in 
her arms and half carries her to the couch, 
where she drops her., lyii^g helpless., none too 
gently; she says as she goes.) 

Mrs. p. Lord love ye, what's come to ye, Misa 
Karen! Ye give me a turn! Me 'art's a-breakin' 
out my stys! What's come to ye, I sy? {Stands 
looMng down at her.) I know bloomin' well what 
''asnH come to ye, — fire, nor food nor drink 'asn't 
come to ye, till yer 'ands is baby-bird claws an' yer 
eyes is at the bottom o' wells ! 'Ere ! Lucky as I 



In Far Bohemia 39 

knows what'll bring you to life! {8he ope7is the door 
of the cupboard and takes down a ivhishy bottle and 
glass.) I can't trust me 'and to carry a drop to the 
poor dear till me 'art gets quieter -like. It's a mercy 
Pennypacker, before ever we left Lunnon for America, 
an' 'e got 'is decree habsolute, taught me a thing or 
two about medicine! 

{She pours out a finger of whishy and 
drinks luith relish. As she wipes her mouth 
on her apron., she sees that Karen has faintly 
struggled to an upright position against the 
cushions^ and is looking at her hewilderedly .) 

Kaken". Mrs. Pennypacker! You! — Where am 
I? {Stretches out her hands to fire.) 0, how good 
it is to be warm ! 

Mes. p. a drop o' this, my dear, '11 warm ye 
from the hinside hout, — from the houtside hin ain't 
nowise permanent nor satisfactory ! {Karen mechan- 
ically takes glass., hut sets it down without tasting its 
contents.) Providence, my dear, ever guides us to 
our needs, if we keeps our heyes open. Pennypacker 
'e says to me many and many a time before he got his 
decree habsolute, — which was soon after we came to 
Hamerica, my dear! — '' 'Arriet," 'e says, *'in some 
things you 'ave a hinstinct! That's hall we can 
call it — a hinstinct!" An' it was my hinstinct. 



40 In Far Bohemia 

under Providence, my dear, that led me to McLaren's 
cupboard. 

Kaken. Mr. McLaren's — 0, I had forgotten — 
this is Mr. McLaren's room. I have no right — I 
must not {Tries lueakly to rise.) 

Mes. p. No right, indeed! Mybe ye'll be flyin' 
next in the face o' Providence, an' sayin' a body has 
no right to the sty an' support Providence sends to 
their needs — maybe you'll say I've no right to the 
stimulatin' drop I was about to take for the sinkin' 
in me, when you come to, an' I brought the stuff to 
you instead! {Drinks again.) 

Kaeek. I must go — go away from the fire! 
{She leans sMveringly over it.) It is time, — it must 
be time for Mr. McLaren to come back from the 
theatre. 

Mrs. p. It won't be for hours yet, my dear, 
McLaren'll be at 'ome. There'll be the manager to 
hinterview, an' the boys to stand drinks for, an' — 
well, as if you knew the news! McLaren's made 
a 'it! 

Karen. A— 'it? 



Mrs. p. Ah, my dear, not bein' in our branch 
of hart, p'raps you don't know what 'tis to make a 
'it? {Produces a stumpy Uach pipe, cleans it., fills 
it from a tohacco-hox 07i mantel^ and smokes., as she 
talks.) M'ybe you won't mind my 'avin' a whiff, my 
dear ; it combines wonderful with the other medicine 



In Far Bohemia 41 

to quiet the 'art; an' bein' McLaren's own 'baccy, 
'e caiyn't grumble at the smell! . . . Yes, McLaren's 
made a 'it. 'Twas me 'usband's nephew, — leastways 
me 'usband's cousin's nephew, as stys with me an' is 
the comfort of me age — 'im as is right wing man 
down at the Globe Theayter where McLaren made 
'is 'it to-night, as come back and told me. You see 
McLaren 'e's been twenty years a utility hactor. 
Wot's that? Wy, wen you're a utility hactor, you 
plays comic servants in the city for fifteen a week, 
an' Uncle Tom on the road for twenty-five a week, 
and 'Amlet, for fun, whenever you gets a chance — an' 
comes 'ome hon yer huppers! That's wot McLaren's 
been a-doin', an' 'e hall the time a character hactor 
fit to kill ! Character ! Anybody could see it with 
'arf a heye, — hanybody but a manager ! Managers ! 
Faugh! If managers 'adn't been a set o' bloomin' 
fools, wouldn't I 'a 'ad my whack at Juliet, any day 
these forty years? Just because McLaren's got 
character written all over 'im, featured in the bill — 
display type — character's the one thing they wouldn't 
let 'im at! Managers! . . . Well, to-night they 
put on "Fetters of Flesh" — big play — first night — 
great part, written a-puypus for Algerson, leading 
comedy of the Meonian Co. — great part! — Gent '00 's 
struck with paralysis in the prolouge, while 'e an' 
another vilyun, 'is pal, is foolin' with some pypers 
that mix things up for heverybody — mix up love- 



42 In Far Bohemia 

interest, money-interest, heverythink — see? 'E knows 
it all, an' wants to straighten it all, an' carnt — 
bloomin' paralysis — fettered by flesh, — see? Tries to 
make 'em understand — with one 'and — all 'e's got, — 
see? Kest of 'im stiff — an' one side of 'is face! See? 
Just in the end, wen the vilyun is 'avin everythink 
'is own way, paralyzed party busts fetters o' flesh — 
see? Takes a big brace — speaks — moves — gives the 
'ole damn thing away — gives away his pal — straightens 
things out — dies! — See! 0, the part's a corker! 
'Ole play belongs to that part! And to-night — 
second call — no Algerson. Not in theayter — no- 
where! Manager wild — tearing! Three overtures. 
In comes Algerson — full as a tick — dead, howlin', 
tearin', fool drunk ! Braced up for the first night — 
overdid it — See? Manager wild — ^raving! *' 'Go's 
his d — d understudy?" says 'e? "Understudy?" 
'owls the author. "Understudy go on in the biggest 
character part written for twenty years — smash my 

play? Smash me.^ Not if I" (Imitates violent 

rage of sioearing.) Manager says, "Send audience 
'ome and advertise the Globe shut up on a big first 

night? Smash mef Not if I" {Imitates worse 

rage of swearing.) McLaren, pretty white around 
the gills — his chance just jumping down his throat: 
"I've understudied Algerson, sir, an' I think I can 
play the part." Humble apology to 'ouse — sudden 
and painful illness of Mr. Algerson — hindulgence 



In Far Bohemia 43 

hasked for Mr. McLaren — ting-a-ling-a-ling ! 
Curtain hup! Hit went through the bloomin' lot I 
Fish in water — man where he belonged — McLaren in 
character work! Three calls hafter the prologue! 
Five calls hafter the second hact ! All 'ell hafter the 
third hact ! Author — McLaren — speech — 'owls — 
'andkerchiefs — a 'it! — McLaren's made! TJiaVs 

hall! 

{Karen has raised herself on her cushions 
as Mrs. P. proceeds; and as she finishes, falls 
bach against them in hysterical laughter and 
crying.) 

Karen-. 0, I'm so glad for him! I'm so glad! 
I'm so glad ! It's so good that there's luck anywhere 
in the world — for anybody ! 

Mrs. p. There ain't much luck traveled your 
way lately — eh, my dear? The little pictures don't 
sell— eh? 

Karen. It must have been father's name on the 
pictures that sold them. You know I painted them 
all — all they bought, for months before he 

Mrs. p. Before 'e was "released," as they say. 
{Aside.) D. T. ! An' they won't buy 'em now 'e 
can't sign 'em? Dear, dear! Times is 'ard with 
you, isn't they, dearie? I've known they was 'ard, 
an' that was 'ow I 'adn't as much as mentioned that 
trifle of rent. 

Karen. {Rises staggeringly.) 0, I know, 



44 In Far Bohemia 

Mrs. Pennypacker, I know! To-morrow, — perhaps — 

to-morrow! {She crosses totteringly to chair 

and falls into it.) 0, how stupid I am! — I can't 

(Mrs. Pennypaclcer offers her the ivhisky glass; 
she faintly puts it aside.) Not that ! But if there 

were anything else, — just a crumb — just a swallow 

Mes. p. {Hastens to windoic sill and takes tin 
can, hri7iging it to Karen.) 'Ere you are, my dear — 
the very thing ! Milk ! Though why an unmarried 

— moral — man should 'ave 7nilk 

Kaeen". {Pours out a little tremulously in glass.) 
I think — he buys it — for the cat. 

Mrs. p. {Pulli?ig up her skirts.) Cat? There 
ain't no cat! 

Karen". She lives on the roof. I don't think she 
ever comes in. I hear him coaxing her to, some- 
times. He puts out the milk for her. 
Mrs. p. That's McLaren ! Character ! 
Karen. {Drinks the milk at first daintily, then 
with a sudden passionate greediness.) 0, how good 

milk is ! How 

{She reaches out half -unconsciously for the 
can Mrs. P. extends to her. Before she 
touches it a voice is heard singing stento- 
riajily, hut evidently very far heloio stairs, 
'''• Glory, Glory, Hallelujah!^'' Karen lays 
down the glass and moves more steadily, though 
still feelly , toiuard the door.) 



In Far Bohemia 45 

Karen". 0, Mrs. Pennypacker! You'll explain 
to Mr. McLaren? You'll tell him that I,— that 
to-morrow, 

{She goes out^ catcliing at the door-post as 
she passes. McLaren'' s voice sounds more and 
more loudly in '' Glory ^ Glory ^ Hallelujah!'''' as 
he approaches the layiding.) 

Mrs. p. Hexplain! Hexplain! That's heasy 
said, — but with so much gone from the milk, — an' a 
trifle from the whisky, — an' McLaren maybe that 
'otty from 'avin made 'is 'it 

{She agitatedly piits tohisky -bottle to her 
lips as McLaren enters. He wears an ancient 
theatrical cloaTc and slouch hat. His arms are 
full of cans, bottles, bundles and the like. He 
is still jovially singing. He pauses at sight 
of Mrs. P.) 

McL. Your very good health, Mother P. ! {She 
endeavors confusedly to put the bottle back in the 
cupboard, but can'' t find the door.) 0, don't hurry! 
Don't hurry! Glenlivat of that quality is its own 
excuse for consumption ! 

{He puts doivn bundles, takes off cloak and 
hat, warms himself at fire, etc., as the scene 
proceeds.) 



46 In Far Bohemia 

Mrs. p. 0, Mr. McLaren! I 'ope as 'ow you 

won't think it strynge 

McL. I give you my word, Madam, I never thought 
anything strynge in my life — my vowels are not 
constructed on that principle ! Moreover an exposi- 
tion of sociability hath come upon me, — and I sup- 
pose I might as well take it out with you as with 
the — other — cat! Especially as you haven't her 
unkind way of rejecting my hospitality; you even 
accept it — unsolicited — ^you know ! {He goes to man- 
tel^ takes pipe and opens toiacco-hox to fill it.) Have 

a pipe-full, Mrs. P.? — Eh? {Looks into jar.) 

I should say, have — another — pipe-full? {Smokes.) 

Mrs. p. 0, Mr. McLaren, I'm that upset! 
What with your hamazin' 'it 

McL. Oh! The news of my 'it 'aa reached 
'ome already, 'as it? This is fyme! {Sits smoking.) 

Mrs. p. {Slightly maudlin.) What with your 
'it, and the queer goin's-on of Miss Demar, across 
the 'all, there 

McL. {Drops his pipe on table.) Miss Demar? 
Wliat goings-on? 

Mrs. p. Such a hamazin', hunexpected 'it! 

McL. Hit be damned! What's been happening 
to Karen Demar? (Rises.) Woman! Woman! 
Gather up the fragments of yourself and talk sense ! 
English you can't talk — I don't ask it of you, 
knowing you came from England! — but sense you 



In Far Bohemia 47 

can talk, now and then, with an effort! Brace up! 
Make your effort! What's happened to that little 
girl across the hall? 

Mrs. p. Starvation's 'appened to 'er — that's wot ! 
An' faintin' away dead as a corpse on that there sofy! 

McL. God bless that sofa! 

Mrs. p. When I 'card 'er a-goin' out at ten 
o'clock of such a tempestrious night as this 

McL. Out at ten o'clock? That child? What 
for? Alone? 

Mrs. p. I says to myself, when a pretty girl 
who's got no friends nor clothes — nor food — nor fire 
— nor money — starts out alone at ten o'clock of a 
tempestrious night, it means, one of two things. 
Now, she bein' wot she is, one thing it don't mean 
with Karen Demar — though there's many a gentle- 
man, single and married 

McL. I don't want to figure in the papers 
to-morrow morning other than in my professional 
capacity — but there are moments when assault and 

battery {He eyes Mrs. P. vengefully and sloioly 

turns up his cuffs.) 

Mrs. p. And the other thing was — the river ! 

McL. The river ! Good God ! {Snatches up his 
hat.) But you said she came back again — didn't 
you? {He catches Mrs. P. hy the shoulders and 
slightly shakes her.) You practical exemplification 
of all the vices ! You said so ! — didn't you? 



48 In Far Bohemia 

Mks. p. Certain sure I said so! {Releases her- 
self gasping.) Didn't I tell you I brought her to, 
with your whisky, in this very room? An' a relief 
it was, I do sy, an' me a-settin' up wytin' for the 
police to come and tyke me away to identify her 
drowned body. 

McL. You — a-wytin' — not following the child, — 

not, — just — a-wytin' [He deliherately ope7is 

door.) Mrs. Pennypacker, I think your husband's 
cousin's nephew must be wytin' for you at your 
domestic hearth ! 

Mes. p. {Goes lewilderedly toward door .) Well 
— upon — my {Loolcs toivard hottle on taUe.) 

McL. Take it, Mrs. Pennypacker. {Carries 
iottle to her.) Take it with my love and the com- 
pliments of the season — take it and depart — 0, 
depart! 

Mes. p. {At threshold.) Well, I cayn't see 
what you''ve done for that starvin' girl any more'n 

me. 'Aven't^o^t just set a-wytin'? Just a-wytin'! 

{Goes sloivly, ^nuttering and shaking her head.) 

McL. {Goes lach to taUe^ ahsentlxj takes up pipe; 
crosses to fire; leans on mantel.) Eight you are, 
Pennypacker ! We're pennies of a pattern ! Wytin' ! 
Yes, that's what I've been doing, — waiting — and 
that little girl wearing away like a snow-wreath 
before my eyes, day after day — her dear, blue eyes 
getting bigger and bigger, and her poor little wrists 



In Far Bohemia 49 

getting smaller and smaller — starving — and I wallow- 
ing in luxnry — and having luxnry left over for Penny- 
packer to wallow in ! Damn it all ! AYhat can I do? 
What conld I ever do? Proud as — as a decent little 
girl should be ; no more take a cent from me than 
that confounded cat — by the way, that reminds me. 
{Opens garret icindotu and looks for cat.) Puss! 
Puss! Kitty! Kitty! Kitty! 0, there you are, 
are you? Won't you come in? Do come in ! Per- 
haps you don't know I've made a hit? Oysters every 
day after this! Oysters 7ioiv! {Comes dack and 
opens can; holds up oyster.) Come in and have 
one? No ! Confound you, perhaps you won't come 
in till I'm a star? Take it then — take several! {He 
throws oysters out one after another; comes lack and 
wipes his hands.) It's no use! Not even a cat to 
jubilate with! {Takes up pipe again.) And my 
hit's made! Who was the man who said he didn't 
get his Eden Kose till he'd lost his sense of smell? 
That's mel {8mokes gloomily.) And that Little 'Un 

freezing to death and starving to death — and I 

{There is a faint cry and a light fall without.) Good 
Lord! What's that?— I thought— if it should be— I 
suppose I've no business to — Damn propriety! 

{He rushes out. After a pause he hrings 
Karen in., in his arms, very tenderly. Her 
hair is loose. She is deathly white. He lays 



50 In Far Bohemia 

her on the sofa^ covers her with the 'buffalo role^ 
chafes her hands, etc.) 

McL. I say, Little 'Un — Just open your eyes a 
minute, can't you? Just a minute? There's a pulse 
at her wrist! She isn't dead! She can't be dead! 

She shanH be dead! Little 'Un! {He rushes 

to cupboard, and then remembers the whisky is gone; 
takes flask from pocket.) So much saved from the 
Pennypacker! (He puts it to her lips.) Just a drop 
or two, Little 'Un! There! That's better, isn't it? 

Kaken". {Opening her eyes; faintly.) Mrs. 
Pennypacker ! 

McL. Odor of whisky ! Force of association ! 

Karen^. Mrs. Pennypacker, I — why, I'm in Mr. 
McLaren's room, still ! I thought I went back ! — I 

thought Mr. McLaren! {She struggles to 

rise.) 

McL. Stay where you are! {She sinks back.) 
Come, now. Little 'Un, don't you see you've got to 
stay where you are? You can't get up alone, and 
I'm blamed if I help you. I've helped you to do 
enough in the suicide line, lately — helped you by 
looking on and wytin' — I mean waiting. 

Karen". {Beivildered.) Mr. McLaren! 

McL. 0, well, I'm rattled, that's a fact; but 
there's nothing worse the matter with me. I only 
want you to stay where you are. It's warm; that 



In Far Bohemia 51 

room I took you from is a refrigerator ! Child, you 
were lying (He stops y choking with emotion.) 

Karen. (Faintly.) Yes — I know. 

McL. And there's something to eat here. 
There's a great deal to eat. I had some idea of 
celebrating — with the cat. (Fumbles among pack- 
ages.) But the cat didn't see it. There's some wine 
jelly in that bowl. (Hands it to her.) Eat every 
last drop of that wine jelly, Little 'Un! Do you 
hear? Eat that jelly ! 

(^She mechanically obeys: and presently eats 
with mad eagerness. He watches her loith 
growing emotion: and at last turns his bach., 
unable to bear her hunger.) 

Karen". (She sets down the bowl with a long sigh, 
and speaks wistfully , after a little pause.) 0, I 
wish you hadn't done it, Mr. McLaren! Now it's 
only to do over again — all over again ! 

McL. (Coming forward.) What's to do over 
again? 

Karen. The starving. The freezing. The dying. 
It was almost done. . If you'd left me where I fell, it 
would have been done, before morning. I knew 
that, — that's why I didn't go to the river to-night. 
I started to go to the river; and then I said: **It 
will come before morning anyway ; and it had better 
come at home." 



52 In Far Bohemia 

McL. (With a sob.) At home!' 0, Little 'Un! 

Kaken. There's no place in this world for a girl 
who wants to keep good, and hasn't any one to take 
care of her — and isn't clever enough to do any work 
the world wants. I was almost through; why didn't 
you let me go the rest of the way? {Crying softly.) 

McL. Because there was somebody to take care 
of you. Because it isn't going to begin again — Lie 
still, Little 'Un. I'm going to talk straight talk. 
If I say anything I oughtn't or do anything I 
oughtn't you can go away, you know — after you've 
killed me. Did you know you were engaged to be 
married? Well, you are; and after you've had a 

good nap {TiicTcs the buffalo role around her.) 

and some breakfast, I'm coming back. {Begins to 
put on cloah and tahe up hat.) And I'm going to 
bring a parson and a license, and you're going to 
sign your checks Karen McLaren before to-day noon. 
{As she tries to rise and speah.) Hold on! Lie 
still! I'm not through yet. I'd like to adopt you 
— I'd rather adopt you — but I can't. The world is 
full of people — mostly Pennypackers — and it wouldn't 
go down. But if I marry you, it'll be nobody's 
business, will it? I've made a hit — you didn't know 
that, maybe? Wait till the morning papers come 
out! I've made a hit; and I go with the company 
to New York to-morrow, to play the biggest character- 
part the American stage has seen in twenty years, at 



In Far Bohemia 53 

a salary of several figures. That's settled. Well, 
then! What's the matter with your going to school? 
There isn't a Kindergarten department in the country 
wouldn't be proud of you ! What's the matter with 
your studying Art, — Paris — ^you know — anywhere? 
I'll insure my life to-day, — you may be a widow 
before you've grown up! You needn't be afraid of 
my bothering you, you know. I made my hit in a 
character-part — I won't tackle Eomeo just yet! 
You shall be as free as if I'd adopted you; and if 
you ever, after you're grown up, run across Eomeo — 
why — I'll see you get a decree absolute with alimony! 
Come now, Little 'Un? It's a bargain? Ah? Do 
it for charity! Think what a mercy it'll be to a man 
who hasn't anything in this world but a damned 
unsocial cat ! 

Karei^. {TremUingly begins to put up her 
loosened hair.) Mr. McLaren, I thought, — I 
thought you thought I was — a good — woman ! 

McL. Little 'Un! For God's sake! {Be- 
tvildered.) 

Kaeek. {Rises, steadying herself tremulously 
against the sofa.) Could a good woman — could 
any woman with an honest heart — take home, 
and shelter, and comfort, and all a woman wants 
in this world — from a man who only pities her — 
who does not want her ever to be near him 

McL. Pities her? Doesn't want her near him? 



54 In Far Bohemia 

Little 'Un, I love the ground under your poor blessed 
worn-out little shoes! Don't want her near me? 
Little 'Un, I've stood half the night with my face 
against your door ! But — I've no business to tell you 
such things ! I never meant to tell you such things ! 
You're a child! You were born a lady! You'll 
grow up— a lady! And I — I — Child! I've been a 
strolling player for twenty years ! 

Karen. {Begins to heat up the piUotvs.) Do you 
think the clergyman will mind so many stairs? 

McL. Little 'Un! 

Karen. You can tell me the rest, you know, 
now I know the principal thing — You can tell me 
the rest, bye and bye, — in a year or two, when I've 
graduated from the Kindergarten. 

(McL. sits, dropping his face on his arms, 
Karen goes to the window, and raises the 
shade,) 

Karen. Why, it's dawn — and I do believe there's 
the cat! {Comes doivn to him.) Do you know, so 
many times when I've heard you calling that cat, 
I've wanted to crawl over the roof and say: **0, 
please call me home, instead!" 

McL. {Starts up; opening arms.) Little 'Un, 
if you say that sort of thing — I — Not now ! (He takes 
her hands and kisses them very tenderly, then he 
leads her to the couch and tucks her in.) You'll 



In Far Bohemia 55 

sleep till I come with the parson? (Spent and ex- 
Jiaustedy she sleeps. Looks toward windorv.) Dawn! — 
and our wedding-day! 0, Little 'Un! Little 'Un! 
God bless you! [Goes to door.) 

{He buries his face in his lent arm, leaning 
against the door and sobbing.) 



(CURTAIK.) 



THE END OF THE WAY 



The End of the Way 



DEAMATIS PERSONS. 

Will Scaelett (of Robin Hood's Sherwood Out- 
laws.) 
Lady Jacquelii^e Weeewood. 

The period is the close of the twelfth century. 
The place is the castle hall of Sir John Werewood. 
The time is half past twelve of an October night. 

TJie scene is the hall of the castle of Sir Johii Were- 
wood. If is a7i ancient hall of stone, after the 
manner of the Saxon castles of the twelfth century. 
There is a great fireplace; the logs are smouldering 
low, as if the fire had been hanked with ashes. A few 
pieces of massive furniture. As the curtain rises, 
Lady Jacqueli7ie ptishes aside the arras that hangs 
over one of the doors, and comes in, speaking as she 
does so, lachward, to some one in the corridor with- 
out. She wears the dress of a hoy of the period. 

* This play was written for and is the property of Mr. 
Robert Ederson. 

59 



6o The End of the Way 

Lady J. Come your ways in, Will Scarlett. Nay, 
man, in with thee; what dost thou fear? 

(Will Scarlett enters^ ivith much caution. 
He carries Ms long how: a sheaf of arrows is 
slung over his dacJc.) 

Will. *'What fear I?" quoth he. Ay, marry, 
what should any he who hunts with Kobin Hood, 
fear in the stronghold of a righteous magistrate? A 
naught, a whifflet. Merely a stout cord around the 
arms for first "God speed thee," — and presently a 
stouter cord around the neck. 

Lady J. Nay, Will. Here's my word that that 
stout throat of thine shall know naught more com- 
fortless than a draught of the soundest Ehenish. 

Will. "Ehenish!" As he were lord o' the castle! 

Lady J. Lord of the castle am I not ; yet I can 
guess me shrewdly where good Ehenish grows therein ; 
ay, and a crusty loaf, to test those excellent teeth of 
thine; and a cheese so rich with age, that e'en the 
mice race from the smell of it. Warm thee, Will, 
and take my word that presently we'll feast as fair as 
good comrades should, when they are come to the 
farewell, and to the end of the way. 

Will. The end of the way. Ay, and had I not 
been fool, e'en to the marrow of me, I had met the 
end of the way, a good rood or two nearer to where 
lies mine own safety. 



The End of the Way 6i 

Lady J. But thou wert loath to cry me farewell. 
Nay, say it, churl; 'twas for that thou didst cry 
*'Down!" to thy good caution. 

Will. Nay, I'll speak truth and no smoothness. 
I came with thee unsafely beyond the forest, for that 
I mistrusted thy hot head would ne'er get thy fool's 
feet in surety to the end of thy race. 

Lady J. Yet my fool's feet have led thee to the 
losing of thy wager, eh, Will Scarlett? 

Will. Ay, that through fools' luck have they. I 
wagered thee thou ne'er wouldst get uncaught into 
the strong castle o' Sir John Werewood, worshipful 
magistrate; and it seemeth thou art here; and for 
my sins, I also — and the more fools be we all. 

Lady J. {At fireplace.) The more fool this 
green wood, for that it smokes like half-caught love, 
and warms a wayfarer as little. Burn warmlier, thou 
varlet. {Pokes fire.) 

Will. A murrain on thy clamor ! Wouldst wake 
the castle? What say I? Is't mayhap thy will to 
wake the castle? For this was thy wager? God's 
death ! Has my thick wit led me into the snare the 
honest are aye laying for us greenwood thieves? {He 
fits an arrow to his loio.) 

Lady J. {Faces Mm squarely.) And with this 
word. Will Scarlett, thou facest a leal comrade, at 
the end o' the way? 

Will. {Sloivly drojipmg low.) I wronged thee? 



62 The End of the Way 

Nay, I cannot read thine eyes and not know I have 
wronged thee. Traitor's a vile word. Keckon with 
me as thou wilt, lad — thy fist or a throw at wrestling. 

Lady J. Nay, and I said ay to either, where 
were I in the next breath taken? I am in no haste to 
see Paradise. 

Will. Paradise would be a strange lodging for 
thee, thou fly-afield. 'Tis from the other road I 
guess thy journey's wended. 

(Points significantly downward.) 

Lady J. Mayhap; and mayhap 'tis why I find 
this world too cold a spot for comfort. (Pokes fire 
again.) 

Will. Quiet, I say. Wouldst have theri ghteous 
magistrate afoot? 

Lady J. The righteous magistrate's at a far 
calling. Sir John's in Palestine. 

Will. At the Crusades? I thought him home 
ere this. But we lads of the greenwood follow 
scantily the doings o' court folk. 

Lady J. Sir John doeth in Palestine, Will, what 
thou and thy greenwood lads make shift at here; 
namely, relieve the heathen of goods which Heaven 
meant for true Christians ! 

Will. With this good difference, lad: The 
robbers in the Holj Land come back with praise and 



The End of the Way 63 

pelf; and the robbers o' the greenwood are fair game 
for every sheriff's arrow. 

Lady J. All good sheriffs' arrows sleep i' their 
quivers. 'Tis hours since curfew-time. Eest thee 
by the fire, good Will; I'll e'en go a-hunting for that 
Rhenish I have vowed to thee. 

Will. Nay, I'll rest not. 'Tis not so many 
hours to dawn ; 'tis a shrewd mile to Sherwood, lad, 
'tis the way's end; and so God speed thee. 'Twas a 
good journey, though the strangest e'er I wended; 
but the journey's done. 

Lady J. Nay, the way's not ended. Will, till 
we've pledged its good end in good Rhenish. I'll 
fetch it thee, ere thou hast said, "Where goest 
thou?" 

Will. {Laying his hand heavily on her shoulder.) 
Nay, that's already said; and more's said. Not only 
*'Where goest thou?" but "Thou goest not"— till I 
know where thou goest. 

Lady J. 'Tis not the hunter of hares, 'tis the 
hare that fears hunting that holds me here. I ne'er 
thought to see Will Scarlett o' this complexion. 

Will. Thou 'It see more in Will Scarlett than 
thou e'er hast seen, and thou 'it feel that from Will 
Scarlett that thou ne'er hast felt, if thou curb not thy 
fool's tongue. "Hunted hare"? What else is every 
right-born Englishman that stands for his right- 
born king? Is't for mine own skin I fear? Thou'st 



64 The End of the Way 

fared with me a seven-days' journey. Answer thou 
that thyself! 

Lady J. Nay, Will— dear Will, thy life hath 
guarded mine when no need was, at the call of thy 
good heart; and in my heart thy courage is writ sure. 
'Tis but that I do not know thee in thy new 
humor. 

Will. 'Tis the humor of him who fears for a 
comrade ; and that's the fearsomest fear of all. Hark 
ye, Jackbrain! Seest thou not 'tis not alone Will 
Scarlett's life I bring here to-night on this fool's 
wager? If I'm taken? If they lay me on the rack, 
and my pluck cracks with my bones . . . and when 
they say, hand on screw, "Where bides Robin Hood, 
and what's his password? . . . God's my life! 
Better men than I have said the word that's sped a 
comrade to the rope, and themselves to the hell of 
traitors. I'll take no chance. It is farewell, indeed, 
I say; and so thy hand and it's ended. 

Lady J. A man foresworn art thou. "If thou 
enterest the Werewood hall uncaught," — this thy 
word under last night's white stars — "I'll tarry there 
with thee and drink thy pluck in Sir John's borrowed 
wine." We're here, the wine is within easy stealing. 
I claim thy pledge, man. Will, let me to the cellar. 

Will. 'Twas a fool's pledge. I'll not keep it to 
a right man's risking. Thy hand. Nay? Then 
farewell and no clasping! 



The End of the Way 65 

{He starts for the door.) 

Lady J. Farewell ; and good riddance to a liar. 

Will. {Starting hack in hot anger.) Nay, now 
I go not, tide what betide, till the hand thou wouldst 
not clasp hath taught thee the lesson thou art aching 
for. 

Ladt J. {Greatly startled.) What meanest thou, 
Will,— good Will? 

Will. Good will I do thee, — I and my stout belt. 
Nay, many a time in this our week of wandering 
have I raid, "A murrain on the lad's sharp nettle- 
tongue. Sure the fool that begot him hath never 
learned what sound medicine for Jackanapes hides in 
a hickory rod!" 

{He takes off his belt a7id sivings it.) 

Lady J. That's — that's no hickory rod. 

Will. Thy shoulders will guess no mighty 
difference. 

Lady J. Thou'dst beat me. Will? 

Will. Ay will I, with good heart ; and so do thee 
a charity. 

Lady J. A — a charity. Will? 

Will. A charity. For did I not teach thee that 
a man is not called a liar and a coward by every 
wandering Jackanapes he journeys with, some other 
will e'en teach thee, not with a belt, but with an 
arrow, drawn to the head. 



66 The End of the Way 

Lady J. Will, thou wilt not. 

Will. Who now is hunted hare? Off with thy 
doublet ! 

Lady J. Will, thou canst not I 

Will. Thy shoulders shall guess that. Off with 
thy doublet! 

Lady J. {Strips off her douUet and stands in 
the soft, white shirt beneath.) To it then. I'm 
ready 

( Will lifts his arm for a swinging Mow with 
the belt: she looJcs at him fearlessly . After a 
pause his arm slowly drops, he puts on his belt 
with unsteady hands; he passes his hand 
across his forehead.) 

Will. Beshrew thine eyes! There's magic in 
them! Nay, I swear it on the rood; there's magic 
in them. How else when I would have given thee 
the sound trouncing thou dost so soundly need, 
doth my arm drop strengthless? Boy, is't true? 
Hast meddled with the magic? Nay, I'll ne'er 
betray it to the priests. Speak true. Hast meddled 
with the magic? 

Lady J. (Puts on her doublet again.) With 
white magic, mayhap, Will; but ne'er with black 
magic, on my man's word. 

Will. White magic? What doth white magic do? 

Lady J. Why, many things, my Will, and all of 



The End of the Way (ij 

them good. As this, AVill. Harkye! Thou wouldst 
not let me go to seek the Rhenish we drink farewell 
in, therefore, by my white magic, go I to this arras, 
and say to my white spirit, *'What ho! Wine for us 
of the best. Ay, and crusty loaf, and cheese to 
men's liking." {A taUe is pushed between the cur- 
tains^ having on it the things demanded. ) And lo ! 
my kind spirit waits not, but serves us on the word. 
{She pulls the taUe into the room and wheels it 
foriuard.) 

Will. (In mortal terror.) Saint George I A 
million devils ! Saint Peter and Saint Patrick ! Bid 
it away! I have no silver arrow, and witches care 
naught for good English arrow wood. Bid it away ! 
Nay, then, I'll e'en do what an archer may. {With 
tre^nUing hands he begins to fit an arrow to the 
string.) 

Lady J. {Wlio has been i7i uncontrollable fits of 
laughter.) Down with thy bow ! Thou very Prince 
of thick wits ! Down with thy bow. Art thou gone 
dream-struck? Dost not see? Will naught but very 
magic lighten thy blind eyes? Peer out through 
yonder curtains, then, and tell me what thou seest! 

Will. {With the most elaborate caution^ he peers 
through the drapery.^ through ivhich the table has 
been pushed.) Let me sniff shrewdly, first. Is there 
brimstone in the air? What see I? An old dame — 
or so she seemeth; but, alack-a-day! She may be 



68 The End of the Way 

the devil, for aught my wildered sense can swear. 
She hasteth away — and laugheth as she goes. 

Lady J. Well may she laugh. 'Tis a rare sight 
to see the doughtiest archer in all green Sherwood, 
fleeing in terror from — from what? A well -laid table ! 

Will. Nay, if 'twas laid in Tophet, I'll ne'er 
sup at it. Read me the riddle . . . I'll guess no 
more. And the riddle I'll read, or I hide here till 
the ^un wakes the sheriff. 

Lady J. Ay' now that's right bravely said. Will 
Scarlett. Sit ye down. I'll read whatever page of 
my poor riddle thou 'It turn me to. Sit ye down. 
Eat, man, eat. 

Will. {Cautiously approaching the table.) I'll 
but sip the flagon. E'en the Devil can but half spoil 
good Rhenish. (He dri^iJcs.) And in such Rhenish 
— good lack — I'd all but pledge the Devil ! 

Lady J. {Perching on the edge of the table and 
nibbling a bit of bread.) Thy catechism, Will! My 
faith's pledged to its answering. 

Will. Whence come these? {Indicates things 
on table.) 

Lady J. Erom the larder of the worshipful Sir 
John Werewood — now in . . . Palestine. ( With an 
effect of having been about to say^ ^Hn Paradise.'''') 

Will. Who stole them hence? 

Lady J. Nay, * 'steal" is no pretty word, amongst 
thieves ! No steal : a good gift from Sir John's good- 



The End of the Way 69 

heart housekeeper, she who hath cared me through 
many a care of my calf -time. 

Will. And 'twas even she who opened to thee, 
but now, and let thee pass, uncaught? 

Lady J. Even she. 

Will. My wool-wits clear. And this was thy magic! 

Lady J. {Laughing.) Nay, I told thee 'twas 
white magic. 

Will. One more, and my catechism's sped; 
How camest thou in the wood? 

Lady J. The wood? 

Will. Ay, Jackanapes. The wood where a se'n- 
night since I found thee in the nightfall, nursing thy 
twisted foot and wailing as 'twere a deer in a springe : 
"Alack-a-day! it darkens; I've lost my road and 
lamed my tired foot. I pray o' thee, good archer, 
whereaway lies Werewood?" 

Lady J. And thou didst answer, Greatheart, 
"A many leagues from here lies Werewood. Lame 
duck that thou art, come, lean on a comrade's 
shoulder — we'll fare together." 

Will. Ay, an' we've fared it, over rough ways 
and smooth, all the way through; and now the way's 
ended. But thou dost not fairly meet my catechism : 
How came thou in that wood? 

Lady J. They sent me to a place I liked not 

Will. Too free gift 0' the hickory, eh? 

Lady J. Too many prayers. 



70 The End of the Way 

Will. Ay, praying's clear not in thy talent 

Lady J. Nor in thine, eh, Master Scarlett — eh? 

Will. Nay, but an outlaw may say a prayer — so 
'tis an outlaw's prayer. 

Lady J. Be outlaws churchmen, then? 

Will. Nay, 'tis not in a church my prayers come 
— the priests are in the way. 'Tis when I stand i' 
the greenwood — and the trees talk i' the night wind, 
and the stars are big, and at my foot is a comrade's 
grave, that died in a good fight — 'tis then the heart 
cries up to find what's i' the wind's voice and the 
star's silence; and to find where live the men who 
died for men. 

Lady J. May such a prayer be said for me in 
such a heart. Amen. 

Will. Sayest thou so, lad? Ay, and 'twas said 
with good heart. 

Lady J. With all my heart, such as my heart is, 
'twas said. 

Will. Thou sayest it? {He rises eagerly.) Nay 
then, lad, why shouldst not make it sooth? To 
die i' the greenwood, must a man live i' the green- 
wood. Wilt cast thy life there? Think, . . . 
there's no life freer — no life in the which a man's so 
true a man. 

Lady J. I trust that, for I have known an out- 
law. But, Will, dear Will, the life of a true man i' 
the greenwood is not for me. 



The End of the Way 71 

Will. And wherefore not, lad? I' the name o' 
the saints, wherefore not? My faith upon it, thou'rt 
fatherless. 

Lady J. Ay, unfathered and unmothered. 
Will. And no one rules thee with right, who 
rules thee into the uncomfort thou didst flee from. 
'Twas a brave flight, that flight. The lad who flees 
from slavery fights for liberty, when the man's beard 
comes. Thou fleest from no duty who fleest to the 
greenwood with me. Lad, my heart is moved as 
'twere by magic indeed. I knew not till thou 
spakest that word, how ill it were for me to leave 
thee. Lad, I have had no full-heart comrade since I 
was myself a very lad. I know not by what strong 
moving I am moved to plead thee. Come to the free 
life — to the wood's life, to the man's life. I have 
been thy field -mate but a star's hour, yet art thou 
heart-mate to me, as none has been since my brother 
died a lad, here on my breast. Lad, be my very 
brother. I'll make thee man. I'll guard thee as 
guards a man. Lad, the stars set, I must begone. 
. . . Wilt come? 

Lady J. I may not. Will, . . . brave heart, I 
may not. 

Will. And wherefore **may not"? Dost hope 
for preferment, in turning hearth-dog here? What 
means preferment? To wait upon a great man's 
nod ; to pay thy manhood, that thou mayest eat rich 



72 The End of the Way 

and lie soft ; to live a lackey, and fare, up yonder, as 
they fare who have sold soul's right for body's safety. 
Nay, in the greenwood there's naught between a 
man's soul and the stars of God. And, therefore, 
man stands — at man's whole height. . . . Lad: 
Come! 

Lady J. I may not. Will. Nay, despise me 
not — an' thou knewest all, thou wouldst say, "Stay: 
'tis honor." . . . Will! Look not at me, as one 
who scorns a coward. . . . Will! Thou shalt not 
go in scorning. At the way's end, Will — the good 
way we have fared together — thou shalt not go in 
scorning! Bide here but one small moment. Will: 
In one small moment I will show thee without words 
why 'tis I may not fai'e with thee. Glad would I fare 

with thee, staunch heart; but for Nay, wait 

but for this one small moment, Will. Thou thyself 
shalt say — shalt bid me 

{She holds out her hands to hirriy in a 
piteous appeal^ as she goes from the 7'oom.) 

Will. (Looking after him, in hetvilderment.) 
What means the lad? **I may not, in honor," — 

"thou'lt say I may not, an' thou seest," See 

what? What next of magic? All things fade in 
mine eyes to a dancing dream. What is't to me. 
Will Scarlett, archer and outlaw, so a lad cometh wi' 
me or no? ... A lad I ne'er set eyes on, till a 



The End of the Way 73 

se'nniglit gone? Met eyes of? Ay, there is't; there 
lies his magic. His eyes are as the deer a man 
tames to his hand. They're as the stars a man lifts 

prayer to. They're Nay — I'm fay-struck. I'll 

away. He will not fare with me, what matters why? 
I'll away! {Starts toiuard door ^ hesitates^ returns.) 
Nay, but I pledged to him a stirrup-cup, at the 
way's end. I'll drink it wi' him; he shall not say 
again, "Hunted hare!" and "Liar!" Ay, "Liar," 
said he, and walks afoot with a whole head! Tell it 
not in Sherwood forest, lest all true men forswear my 
company! How low burns the fire! It feels the 
dawn chill. . . . Nay, for my comrades' sake I must 
be afoot. I'll wait no longer. 

(^6* he twns to go out^ Lady J. enters, in 
her tuoman^s attire.) 

Will. {Starting at sight of her.) I'm trapped! 
A fool must e'en woo his destiny! I've no one word 
to offer — the cord's about my throat. Madam, I 
pray you take no fear of me. 

Lady J. Nay, Will Scarlett, why should thy 
field-mate have fear of thee? 

Will. My field-mate?— Thou?— Nay, ... By 
our Lady 0' grace! . . . Lad! 'Tis thou? 'Tis 
truly thou? 

Lady J. In verity, Will Scarlett, it is I. But 
no lad, Will. 



74 The End of the Way 

Will. God's death ! — a maid? 

Lady J. Canst thou forgive me, Will, that I'm 
no lad? That I took lad's good help of thee, who 
am no lad? 

Will. No lad? A maid? Nay, then the magic's 
clear. . . . White magic — aye, indeed, white magic 
— the magic of a white maid's eyes. 

Lady J. I meant to tell thee, Will; but thou 
saidst, who thought me lad, **I'll company thee to 
the way's end." And, Will, I was so lone, so lame, 
so frighted, . . . and thy strong shoulder was so 
good to lean on . . . Will, 

Will. Nay, 'twas best — 'twas a good way. I 
had not companied thee, this good way, had I known 
thee maid. Is the way ended, — is't in yery truth 
ended, — this way we fare together? 

Lady J. {Startled.) How else, Will? Great- 
heart, how else? 

Will. Nay, thus else: If I bade thee, a lad, 
bear me long company, — be field-mate, and wood- 
mate, and heart -mate — a million times do I so cry 
thee now! Mine as no lad could e'er be mine! 
Mine by the right of man's love, born the hour thou 
criedst upon me in thy need; nourished by every 
hour we companied together under God's free stars; 
revealed to this my wildered soul, when but now I 
would have done thee pain in my just anger, and 
thine eyes struck mine arm strengthless. In that 



The End of the Way 75 

love's name, come forth! What are they to thee, 
from whom thou didst flee? I will be all to thee — 
thou shalt lack naught. Comrade for life and death 
and love that's deathless, come forth with me, and 
learn what like is life and love when man lives and 
loves with naught but the starset sky between him 
and his God! 

Lady J. {Breahs into a passion of soiling.) I 
may not. Will, I may not. . . . Will, I am nor lad 
nor yet free maid. Will, I am Lady Werewood ! 

Will. A wife! — My life's love — and a wife! 

Lady J. A wife who ne'er knew love, ... a 
wife who ne'er knew wifehood. By my father's 
death-couch, — Will, by my father's dying command, 
I gave my hand into the hand of Sir John Werewood, 
my father's oldest, closest of comrades. . . . 
" 'Twill be safety for thee, maid!" — my father 
gasped, and died. ... A priest had stood beside 
the couch ; they told me when they lifted me from 
my dead father's breast, the word of that priest had 
sealed me wife. 

Will. And thy husband? 

Lady J. He stood in war-dress by my father's 
death-couch. Within the hour he sought ship for 
Palestine. 

Will. God ! How is he then thy husband? A 
word spoke unknowing, by a maid-child, who knew 
not what word she spoke — a maid they penned after, 



je The End of the Way 

by her lord's command, in a convent prison, until 
that he cometh to teach her how life may be prison 
indeed? Cold? Old? Thrice wedded? How shall 
he call thee wife, who ne'er shall call thy heart? 
. . . Nay, thou art mine — mine, who can teach thee 
true love-lessoning, and wait in reverence till thou 
learnest that lesson! Come with me, now — now, 
mine own — mine heart's heart, . . . Come! 

Lady J. Sayest thou so, in very truth? Thou, 
who art man and large, and true and wise? ... Is 
it sooth that I who love thee — for even in this hour 
I do know I do love thee. Will, dear heart ! — that I 
who love thee may fare forth with thee without 
blame, and God's stars give us welcome? ... I 
know not — my lore is but what priests teach — be 
thou my beadsman, Greatheart comrade. Say yet 
once more of free heart, *'Come!" — and I who love 
thee, follow thee over the rim of the world ! 

Will. God sees . . . and I dare not say it! — 
God!— 'Tis the end o' the way! 

Lady J. I may not go? 

Will. For that thou art wife, who knowest not 
what wife may be, thou mayest not go. . . . 
Farewell ! 

Lady J. Wilt leave me, Will! . . . Nay, my 
heart faints — how is it strangely with me? 

Will. Would God I might teach thee that sweet 
why. I may not, Sweet — Sweet! — This I do tell 



The End of the Way yj 

thee: Thou calledst in the dark wood, and God 
sent me to thy side. In any peril, any pain, let but 
thy soul call mine, and Hell's fetter cannot keep me 
from thee! To my heart once — once — that thou 
mayest know forever what love is ! {He catches her 
passionately to Ms breast y and kisses her long.) 
Farewell ! 

(Re rushes out.) 
Lady J. (She watches him. go; a great and 
piteous trembling seizes her; she sinks into a chair 
with one thick sob.) The end o' the way! . . . The 
end o' the way! 



(CURTAIK.) 



A COMEDIE ROYALL 

BEING A FORGOTTEN EPISODE 

OF Elizabeth's day. 



A Comedie Royall 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Elizabeth (Queen of England). 

Sir Johk Hartwynd. 

Royall Hartwykd (his son). 

Sir Edward Avis. 

Lord Mortimer Farthorite. 

Phyllida Frei^ch (Lady in waiting to Elizabeth) . 

The period is 1580. The place is England. 
The scene is an audience-chamber of the palace. 
The time is noon of an April day. 

The scene is an audience- cliamher^ with carved fire- 
place^ L.S. Mullionedivindoivslach^L.andR. Large 
entrance-door^ tach^ centre covered with tapestried 
hangings. A throne-lihe chair^ on a dais, R. 3. 
A carved table^ L. C. with chairs on either side. 
Curtain-music^ any Elizahethan air. As the cur- 

81 



82 A Comedie Royall 

tarn rises, Elizabeth stands upon the dais, having 
apparently arisen from the throne in haste and anger. 
Phyllida stands a little to L. of dais with face hidden 
in her hands. Royall Hartwynd stands hack in 
shadow of curtains of loindow L, bach. Avis, Far- 
thorne and John Hartwynd stand grouped by door 
bach, centre, as if about to leave the chamber. 

Elizabeth. Nay, Lords, not yet! Quit not our 
chamber here, 
Till that there buzz into the ears o' ye 
A somewhat, that may sting ye into grace 
Of fair and seemlier manners ! 'Od's my life! 
Is this our audience-chamber where ye stand, 
Or is't our apery? 

Avis. Your Majesty — 
Your Gracious Majesty, — we meant not, — we 

Elizabeth. You meant not! 'S' Death! You 
meant not. Harkye now! 
Hell's aristocracy, my Lord, is built 
Of men that *'meant not!" Here, with leave, my 

Lords, 
Here in our audience-chamber, you beguile 
An hour or twain, in royal company ; 
Claims such a privilege no dignity? 
What dignity show ye? 'Fore Heaven I swear 
Ye show your Queen the dignity of apes 
That scent a jest to feed a grin, withal, 



A Comedie Royall 83 

In every wind that blows ! 

Maid Malapert — 

(PhyUida, whom the Queeri indicates^ takes 
her hands from before her tear-stained face^ 
and makes a gesture of timid and supplicating 
deference toward the Queen.) 

A baby sheep, from country sheep-fold new, 
Bleats out, responding to an idle word, 
A sheep's own answer; — and to every lip 
Straight leaps an apish grin ! — To all save one ! 
Where passed the lad? Where's Eoyall Hartwynd? 

Sir JoHiq^. Ah! 

Your Majesty, my son but drew apart, 
Fearing the scathe of that celestial wrath 
That in your eyes doth wither up men's souls. 

Elizabeth. Celestial wrath? Celestial fire o' tow ! 
The Tudor wrath ne'er drew its heat, my Lord, 
From any fire of Heaven ! — Heard you not? 
I bade call Koyall Hartwynd ! 

{Sir John crosses to window L. hack., and 
summons Royall from its curtained recess.) 

Sir JoHif . Please your Grace, 
I plead that this my son did stand apart 

Elizabeth. Did **stand apart!" 'Od's blood! 
'Twould seem, my Lord, 
The royal hangman late had quartered him 



84 A Comedie Royall 

So in your speech your son doth "stand apart!" 
Young Royall Hartwynd, 

{Royall advances to C. and makes profound 
obeisance. ) 

stand forth in our sight, 
An only man, encompassed round with apes ! 
Alone you smiled not, when this lambling here, 
This saltless egg of country innocence 

(Pliyllida gives a cliohing^ hysterical sob.) 
Brought booby blundering of country phrase 
To woo the grins of her Queen's apery! 

Royall. Your Majesty, I saw no food for jest 
In the poor phrase of this poor maiden here, 
Nor saw I jest in — aught that followed it ! 
Elizabeth. [Desce7idmg from dais.) Young 
sir, when churchly service claims your powers, 
(For this, your father hath acquainted me 
Your life to churchly use is dedicate) 
Our word for 't, in your loyal gravity 
The church will be the gainer. 

{She extends her hand^ which Royally kneel- 
ing, hisses. She then passes towards doors, 
bach, centre. Turning, she addresses Phyl- 
lida.) 

Elizabeth. Harkye, wench! 

Since presently we have a word for you 



A Comedie Royall 85 

Bide here till 'tis our pleasure to return. 

The country sheep-fold calls its country sheep ; 

To-morrow's dawn shall speed you back to it! 

{To the men.) 
My lords, the keeper of our apery 
Keeps ever room behind its gilded bars 
For any ape unhousen ! 

(Uxit Mizabeth, through door iacJc centre^ 
all maJchig profound reverences. As the doors 
close after Elizaheth, Phyllida hursts into loio 
hysterical sohUng, and rushes across room to 
ivi7idow L. hacJc^ where she throws herself on 
her hnees hy its cushions, with face hidden. 
As the men come forward, Royall goes qiiietly 
hack and draios the curtai7is before her.) 

Fakthorne. Hell's flame! That a man must 
take such words from a woman ! The sting of her 
cuts sharp to the heart ! 

Ayis. Good Cousin, let your wits whisper there's 
that in the Tower yonder cuts sharper than a 
woman's speech. A lucky sharpness, i' faith, whose 
sting falls not here (Indicates neck.) but here! 
(Hand on heart ivith mock sigh.) 

Sir John^. By'r Lady, ay! Our royal mistress 
hath drawn from bluff King Hal, with much else, 
the trick to make a jest not of the royal jesting — a 
bird of price to him that jests that jest ! 



86 A Comedie Royall 

Avis. Yet was the jest worth all it cost — 'od's 
body was it! E'en the apes she aped us must have 
grinned, when — "Red, your Majesty!" quoth Maid 
Innocence, — (Chokes with laughter. Boy all at 
window L. draivs curtains closer.) — and she — the 
Queen (Laughs again.) 

Farthorne. So thought not our young Master 
Parson yonder! Zounds! Wisely choose you, old 
Sir John, to shear those love-locks 'neath a churchly 
hat ! " No food for jest ! ' ' cants he ! 

(Royall comes down to C.) 

Avis. Young Master Parson! Young Master 
Saint ! Harkye, Gentlemen ! (Lidicates Royall with 
profound salutation.) Here struts Saint Eoyall, 
newly sainted by her sainted Majesty, of not too 
saintly speech ! 

(Avis and Farthorne laugh.) 

Royall. My lords, 'tis not with royalty alone a 
jest may be driven past the road of safety. Faith, 
'tis no psalm book swings here at my side; (Touches 
sword.) and the sole church that yet holds vow of 
mine, is the church militant ! 

(Avis and Farthorne clap their hands to their 
swords.) 

Sir JoHi^. I pray you, gentlemen — son Royall, 



A Comedie Royall 87 

hold your peace ! The Queen's Majesty may not yet 
have passed so far but that 

Farthorne. Nay, no farther — swear me on the 
rood! — than to her tiring glass, there to fling loose 
the locks that gentle Spenser glorifies. 

Avis. And — "What poor color give you then to 
these my locks?" saith she, and those her 'tiring 
maids, less innocent than our poor Maid Innocence, 
cry, *' Color? By'r lady; as the minted gold they 
fihine!" 

(Avis and Farthorne take tcp their plumed 
hats a7id move lachward toward doors.) 

Farthorne. As sunbeams, making light a shady 
world! (Laughs.) 

Avis. As flashing wings of golden butterflies! 
(Laughs.) 

Farthori^e. As sunrise shimmer on a saffron 
sea! (Laughs.) 

Avis. As the new aureole of our fighting saint ! 
(Indicates Boy all.) 

Farthorke. Say rather coxscomb of Saint 
Peter's cock, that clarions a denial of saintliness! 
(Flings open the doors.) 

Royall. I' faith the Queen's menagerie's afoot — 
St. Peter's cock, saluting the Queen's apes! (Bows 
profoundly.) 

Farthorne. S'death, young sir! (Hand on 
sword). 



88 A Comedie Royall 

Avis. Peace, Cousin ! Open doors be open ears 
to drink in words. Dame Caution bids — best speak 
not! Give ye god-den, Sir John and young Sir 
Parson ! 

(Farthorne and Avis exeunt. Doors dose 
heliind them.) 

EoYALL. Young Sir Parson! Zounds, father, 
that word must hound me down no more ! No par- 
son I, nor ever will be parson ! 

Sir John. "Never!" saith the yearling calf i' 
the stall! Heaven's wrath, boy! I 

EoYALL. That ever I should live to hear the 
doughty Sir John Hartwynd dubbed begetter of 
calves ! 

Sir John. Your tongue behind your teeth, sir! 
With preferment clear before you as ne'er till this 
day dawned — he'll be no parson, saith he ! A beg- 
garly sixth son of a father so crippled in estate, that 
scarce he goes fit doubleted to court. 

EoTALL. Nay, father, when a single doublet 

wastes, as yours, the whole fruit of a loom 

{Indicates Sir John^s portly patmch.) 

Sir John. Hold peace, I say ! Or, by the Lord 
I'll birch your parsonship! All my six sons save 
you, afoot and afloat to the world's end, chasing 
that fleet-foot jade, Dame Fortune, — and you, for- 
sooth, would make calf -run after them, and leave 



A Comedie Royall 89 

mine age a sunless day indeed, for that I have no 
son! 

KoYALL. Nay, father, an' I could serve you here, 
save under churchly colors 

Sir Johi^". How else? A simple knight, I have 
scant word at court ! Parson or naught, when seek- 
ing for preferment ! 

Royall. Father, never Hartwynd yet swore 
fealty to a sovereign's banner, when in his heart of 
hearts he waited but his foeman's trumpet-call to be 
his foeman's slave. 

Sir John". What driveling is this? 

Royall. So would it be if I swore service to the 
church while my young blood beat this world's battle- 
call! I tell you, father, this the blood you poured 
into my veins stalks not to music of a priestly psalm, 
but dances to an April roundelay ! I say you nay ! 
Not for preferment, not for place or gold, a Hart- 
wynd e'er pledged caitiff service to a king; and ask 
me not — ^f or God's life ! I say nay ! To pledge such 
service to the King of Kings ! 

Sir JoH]sr. {Gasping luith rage.) A Bedlam! 
A Bedlam! Bring the cords and whip! And she, 
your Queen, so praised within the hour your church- 
manship to be, my old heart biggened with the dream 
I'd see you yet Her Majesty's privy chaplain! 

Royall. Privy chaplain ! I ! Good my father, 
wear I not yet some poor rags of innocence, that you 



90 A Comedie Royall 

should scruple not to bid me list confessions of our 
Virgin Queen! 

Sir JoHi^. A jackanapes! A malapert! A 
murrain on your insolence ! 

EoYALL. Nay, father — no churchman I ! Nay, I 
say! No churchman's prayer goes up from these my 
lips, save one — and that, the holy monk's who sup- 
plicated thus: '* Heaven send me virtue! But, — 
not yet!" 

Sir JoHi^. {Moving toward door.) Nowharkye, 
Sirrah, and mark well my words ! — 
If from your Bedlam mood you turn you not, 
To godly ways and meek obedience, 
If my sixth son follow the other five, 
I'll — ^ring a country wench within a month, 

{Indicates putting a ring on wedding finger.) 

And within ten, I'll have a seventh son! 

{Exit^ in haste and wrath.) 

Royall. {Laughing.) A son of his — Heaven's 
grace! — his son a parson! They're gone at last! 
And now for the one parson's trick of which I'm 
master — comfort of the afflicted, by'r Lady! — ^when 
affliction looks through dew -wet violet eyes, afflic- 
tion's comfort is sweet ministry ! 

{He crosses to the closed cicrtains of windoio, 
L. bacJc.) 



A Comedie Royall 91 

RoYALL. Fair Mistress French! {There is no 
ansiver.) Sweet Mistress Phyllida! {The curtains 
faintly stir.) Nay, then, my little sweetheart! I 
pray you come you forth ! 

{Phyllida comes forth from curtains^ arrang- 
ing her hair and coif^ ivhich are in some dis- 
order; she draius long sighing Ireaths as she 
speaks^ and from time to time dries her eyes.) 

Phyllida. She hath gone, Master Hartwynd? 
'Tis safe and sure, she hath gone? 

Royall. Master me no master, dear and fair my 
maid! From thy lips *' Parson" were scarce hate- 
fuller! 

Phyllida. 'Tis sure she's gone. 

Royall. Ay, hath she ! There's no other queen 
bides here than this, the little queen of my poor heart ! 

{He hisses her hand.) 

Phyllida. Queen? Nay, 'twas not queen, that 
name the queen did name me ! 'Twas "sheep" quoth 
she! 'Twas "malapert" quoth she! 'Twas "saltless 
6ggj" q^oth she! {Weeps again.) You heard? Ay! 
All the world heard, so rang her voice through all 
the world ! 

Royall. I heard. Od's body! And I saw! 
And when her swinging hand laid buffet on that rose- 



92 A Comedie Royall 

leaf cheek of thine, — Heaven's grace ! — 'twas then, 
as saith Sir John, I "stood apart," lest I should 
speak to England's Queen what Englishman speaks 
not to any woman ! 

Phyllida. {Rulbing her cheek.) Her swinging 
hand! I' faith, 'tis marvel any woman's hand hath 
such a swing ! Methought our old cow Cloversides 
had lifted her hoof against me ! 

EoYALL. When I had buffets as a lad — an' faith 
Sir John ne'er spared them! — 'twas my mother's 
gentle wont to medicine them by a simple magic — 
shall I show thee? — Thy mother is not here to com- 
fort thee (for which mercy I give thanks) so sure 'tis 
but my duty {Gently hisses her cheeh.) 

Phyllida. (Nestling to him.) Sure, 'tis quaint 
medicine ! 

Royall. 'Tis medicine that as the parson saith 
'Tis blesseder to give than to receive! 

(Lifts her face and hisses her lingeringly on 
the lips.) 

Phyllida. {Releasing herself.) Nay, sir, the 
hurt reached not my lips ! 

EoYALL. 'Tis well the healing should outrun the 
hurt! 
But heart o ' me ! Here is a hurt indeed 
That doth outrun all healing ! 

Phyllida. ISTay, it puzzles me sore why all this 



A Comedie Royall 93 

evil should be. Here sat the Queen a-jesting with 
the lords, — I heard them not, I did but gaze at thee! 
— and of a sudden saith Her Majesty, — **Out of the 
mouths of babes! The maid shall speak! What 
color, child, be these poor locks of mine?" Then 
said I 

Royall. "Red!" Heaven's footstool! *'Red," 
said you ! — When of all colors on Heaven's footstool, 
red is the hue she'd least her locks should be! 

Phyllida. But red God made them, — and 'tis 
red they are ! 

Royall. The reason of all reasons, dear my maid, 
why thou shouldst not say red ! 

Phyllida. (Sobs.) me! me! When I 
was but a little maid at home, they beat me sore for 
e'en a little lie; and now I'm maid-in-waiting at the 
court, they cuff me that I tell not monstrous ones ! 

Royall. See you, love, God rules the country, — 
or measurably He rules it ; but the court a goddess 
rules; a goddess none too godly! But the mischief's 
done — what comes? 'Od'slife! What comes? 

Phyllida. Naught comes — all goes! I go! 
Heard you not so? ''Sheep to her country sheep- 
fold!" quoth the Queen! — "We speed you thence, 
ere yet to-morrow dawns!" I pack me home to 
Devon ! 

Royall. Thou lovest Devon? 

Phyllida. Love Devon ! That do I ! Ah ! but 



94 A Comedie Royall 

its fields are green ! But what I love not is the man 
who waits me there, — the man they'll wed me to. 

Royall. By Peter's death ! They'll wed thee? 

Phyllida. So swore my step-dame. *'An' thou 
win not grace at court," quoth she, *'the hour that 
sees thee back, will speed thee on thy way to church, 
there to be sealed fourth bride of old Squire Hunbers, 
who hath bid for thee!" Ah, Heaven 'fend me! 
He hath eyebrows like a pent-house, and his hands 
are rough and big, with hairs that curl and creep — 
ugh! {Shudders.) And his kiss 

Royall. {Takes her in his arms.) His kiss? 

Phyllida. Were not — like thine! {Rides her 
face against his Ireast.) 

Royall. They shall not send thee back ! Sooner 
we'll take the road, a wandering gypsy pair, with 
love for food and stars to warm us by ! But how win 
back the favor of the Queen? 

Phyllida. If she but loved thee as I love thee, 
thy sole pleading would suffice. 

Royall. She loves me not . . . and yet! A 
thought, my maid! The Virgin Queen loves no 
man ; yet they say that virgins, queens or no, do love 
men's love ; the more when years have shut the gates 
that bar the virgin from men's love ... I know 
not, I ! My father bred me for a parson ! 

Phyllida. But thou dost not love her? {Her 
lips quiver.) 



A Comedie Royall 95 

RoYALL. Nay, Maid Innocence ! I love as every 
loyal English heart must love the mighty Queen 
whose reign hath rained down peace and glory on our 
isle; but man to woman . . . Sweet, thou knowest 
the color of her hair, — as thou saidst but now of thine 
old suitor's kiss, — 'tis not like thine! 

Phyllida. How then? 

EoYALL. Leave all to me! Love, we'll play 
comedy, with love as prize, and love as prompter too. 
Nay — ^thou needst do naught ! Ope not those hedge- 
rose lips, lest country truth pop out again, and 
straight undo us both ! Say **yes !"— if I say *'Is't !" 
Say **]S[ay" when I say, 'Twas not so!" Naught 
else ! Hist ! Methinks the Queen is here ! 

Phyllida. Yet see I not 

Royall. Seek not to see ! 'Tis yea or nay from 
thee ! Naught else ! Guard thee ! Naught else ! 

(He leads her to fireplace.^ and moves several 
paces away from her. She runs toward him.) 

Phyllida. Love! Have I vexed thee ! 
Royall. Zounds! Back to place, Maid Inno- 
cence ! 

{She hesitatingly and apparently much be- 
wildered and woe-legone^ moves hach to the 
opposite side of the fireplace. He gives a quick 
leap across and snatches a kiss, leapi?ig hach.) 

Royall. Thou vex me, Rose o' Spring! Nay — 



gC A Comedie Royall 

cans't thou understand? 'Tis comedy! We play an 
hour at comedy ! 

{The doors are flung open^ and EUzaieth 
enters. She does not for the moment see 
Royall and PhylUda at the fireplace.) 

Elizabeth. Now, by my halidom! 

'Tis rare we've tasted such a cup of sack! 
Our humor's warm with it! 

(Sees Royall and Phyllida.) 

What have we here? 
Our maid disgraced, in gossip with our parson? 
They note me not. 

(Passes, moving quietly to seat on dais.) 

Royall. Alack, kind Mistress French, 

That ever my rash word should draw you down 
Our sovereign's high displeasure ! (Weep ! 'Tis safe !) 

(Phyllida lueeps.) 

Elizabeth. Hia word, quoth he! There is a 
riddle here ! 

Royall. When she demanded of thee, unaware, 
The color of those glorious locks of hers. 
What wonder if there swam up in thy thought 
The color thou had'st heard me name so oft. 
As of all hues, most royal ! 

Elizabeth. Well said I 



A Comedie Royall 97 

The lad hath parts. The church shall give him up. 
'Twere waste to make him parson! 

EoYALL. Eed! God's rood! 

It is the color of the sunset skies 
When that they flame most glorious ; 'tis the hue 
Of all things rich and vital, — nay, the blood 
That feeds the heart, — what is that blood but red? 
It is the color of the flag that floats 
Above the noblest land God's red sun sees ; 
Then fitly lends its color to the locks 
Of God, His mightiest woman! 

Elizabeth. Parson, he! 

He hath a tongue would grace an Emperor ! 

Phyllida. Yet saidat thou not when late we 
stood alone 

EoYALL. (Zounds! Wilt not weep?) {She 
weeps.) 
Such words as these, mine heart 
Hath oft poured forth into thine innocent ears, 
To ease that secret of tormenting love 
To none save thee confided. 

Elizabeth. Love, said he? 

Royall. The poor, mad fool who dares to lift his 
eyes 
Unto the shrine of her who is his Heaven 
Must look to meet the fate of Phaeton 
Death-scorched by too near splendor ; — ay, the fate 
Of moth, that circling inward to the flame 



98 A Comedie Royall 

Dies, by that flame consumed. E'en so am I, 
I die of love for her I may not love, — 
The Queen who may love no man ! 

{Dashes Ms hand across his eyes, as though 
to stanch tears.) 

Phyllida. When you weep 

Must I weep still? 

EOYALL. (Stanch not your tears an instant!) 

Elizabeth. {Rising.) Young Eoyall Hartwynd, 
thou hast yet to learn 
That every Queen's a woman ! 

Eoyall. {Turning and falling on his Jcnee.) 

Fire of Heaven ! 
The Queen ! My shame consumes me ! 

Phyllida. Didst not know 

The Queen was here? Why I 

{He turns over his shoulder at her a glare of 
desperate appeal. She falls to weeping again.) 

Elizabeth. Again I say 

The Queen's a woman. Such a love as thine 
Makes woman thrice a Queen. Eise, sir, and stand 
Fearless before me. Ay ! Beside me, sir ! 

{Royall rises from his knee. Phyllida ceases 
to weep and stares at them in terrified aston- 
ishment.) 

God's body ! Am I slave, or England's Queen? 



A Comedie Royall 99 

And if a Queen, then Queen o'er mine own love 
To give it where I will. If 'twere our whim, 
Nay, 'twere our royal purpose, to command 
A commoner be King Consort — by the rood 
Were, by that grace, the commoner not a king? 
Sh', of all loves that e'er have cried on me. 
Yours, crying as you thought, unheard of me, 
Out of a man's heart, most hath kindled me. 
Fear not to stand before me. 

EoYALL. {Approaching nearer^ again kneels.) 
^SLj, your grace, my place is here. (Moreover, 

presently, 
If right I read signs of yon April face 
My place will be before the headsman's block!) 

Phyllida. Love, forgive me! 

(Rushes madly to Royall. He rises and 
with manly dignity stands before her^ as if to 
protect her from the Queen^s wrath. She falls 
on her kneeSy catching and weeping over his 
hand,) 

my poor, poor love, 
What bitter end to our poor comedy ! 
She'll marry thee! The Queen will marry thee! 
Royall. Wits serve me now ! Or else farewell 
the head 
My whirling wits inhabit ! 
Elizabeth. Comedy! 

Ltfb 



100 A Comedie Royall 

What bleats this lamb o' Bedlam? Comedy? 
'Od's saints and devils, sir 

Royall. Your Majesty, 

The comedy is over. Naught remains 
But for the Player-queen, — a queen indeed 
Of players, as she is a queen of queens — 
To speak our fate, speaking its epilogue. 

Elizabeth. A queen — of players? 

EoTALL. Aye, as queen in all. 

Your Grace's queenly eyes that naught can film 
Read the poor subterfuge, whereby young love 
Sought 'scape from cruel parting — punished it 
By stooping from the throne to act a part 
Brought our parts to confusion ! 

(Will she take? 
Would I'd turned parson ere that I turned player !) 

Elizabeth. {After a pause, in which she has 
studied his immovable face; faintly and sar- 
donically smiling . ) 
Your queen, young sir, is player, e'en in this, — 
She sometimes takes a cue . . . You say the truth — 
The comedy is done. The Player-queen 
Must get her to her throne, to yawn away 

{Mounts dais.) 

The queenly days, which, when love visit eth 
'Tis but as mummer, mumming comedy! 
Get you to church ! Nay, not as parson, sir I 



A Comedie Royall loi 

Too many parsons now go mumming it. 

We'll have no more. Get you to church, I say, 

To kneel, with her, yon Devon lamb o' grace 

This side the altar -rails. God guard you then! 

'Tis like, were sovereign less soft than we, 

Her bridegroom's head would bride-bed pillow find 

Upon the headsman's block. 

EoYALL. Your Majesty, 

A man must e'en rejoice to lay his head 
Beside so fair a little head as this, 
Whate'er that fair head's pillow. 

Elizabeth. Get you hence! 

The sack that warms the humor of our blood 
Lends not its warmth forever. Get you hence! 
But first — your sword ! 

{Comes down from dais, holding out her 
hand imperatively.) 

KoYALL. My sword ! Your Majesty ! 

God knoweth sword and life your forfeit be. 
But — let my father's name and service plead 
Against this black disgrace ! — ^My life, Queen ! 
But not my sword ! God's breath ! Break not my 
sword ! 

Elizabeth. Your sword! 'Od's body! To your 
knee again. 
Lest we do say — your life ! 

Phyllida. Ah! Mercy, Madam! 



102 A Comedie Roy all 

(Royall hmids her his sword^ first kissing 
its blade. She motions him to kneel. He 
obeys. She strikes him lightly on the shoulder 
with the siuord.) 
Elizabeth. Rise up, Sir Royall Hartwynd, belted 
knight ! 
[He springs up with a gesture of ecstasy.) 
Take back thy sword: there's land shall mate with it. 
And guard thy lands, and guard thy mate and young: 
And guard thine England, and thine England's 

Queen, 
So long as hand and sword have strength to meet ! 
Royall. Once more I say . . . and hear me 
King of Kings ! . . . 
My shamed soul speaks ! . . . I kneel your knight 

and slave . . . 
God's mightiest of women . . . and my Queen ! 

{Elizabeth permits him to kiss her hand., 
looking doion upon him with a wistful smile. 
Then she motions Phyllida to approach. She 
gives Phyllida to RoyalVs arms. Elizabeth 
fnoves slowly down the room toward the doors, 
looking back, she says, with a light sigh.) 

Elizabeth. Nay ! When the man, and not the 
courtier speaks. 
My Lord, another claims that name from you ! 

(CURTIAN.) 



A BIT OF INSTRUCTION 

A LITTLE COMEDY 



A Bit of Instruction 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Jack Despaed, of the Thalia Company. 
Mertouk Newbury, of the Best Society. 

The time is the present. The scene is the bachelor 
apartment of Jack Despard. The time is half -past 
twelve, of a mid-winter night. 

The scene is the bachelor sitti7ig-room^ of Jach Des- 
pard'' s lodgings. It is comfortably, even luxuriously 
furnished, m the manner of a bachelor'' s '•'■den.'''' 
There is a large diva7i, loith cushioiis: a fireplace, K., 
with a bright fire: — loio bookcases, well filled: loung- 
ing-chairs: — a table streimi ivith magazines, etc. The 
walls are hung 'with toater-color sketches, pipe racks, 
etc. As the curtain rises, Newbury is discovered, 
asleep in a large arm-chair, before the fire. The 
chair is partly concealed from any one e7itering, by a 
screen. After a seco?id^s pause, Jach enters. He 
co7nes in, somewhat ivearily. He wears a handsome, 
fur -lined coat. He does not see Newbury: his atten- 

105 



io6 A Bit of Instruction 

Hon being concentrated on the fact tliat^ in addition 
to the lamp^ three gas-jets are in full flame. 

Jack. Well, upon my soul! My landlady will 
land me in the insolvency court, if I don't get a raise 
of salary, presently. Does the woman think I'm 
running a torchlight parade? 

(Newhury has awaked at the first sound of 
JacWs voice., and is sitting sleepily up. Jack 
sees him.) 

Jack. Why, I beg your pardon, Mr. — Newbury, 
is it? 

New. Yes; Newbury — Mertoun Newbury, you 
know. 

Jack. With a hyphen? 

New. I beg your pardon? 

(During this scene ^ Jack is taking off his 
topcoat, tuarming his hands., changing his coat 
for a smoking -jacket., etc.) 

Jack. When there isn't a hyphen, one name 
goes, you know. When there is, the two names are 
compulsory. 

New. (Stiffly.) Mertoun is my Christian name. 
There is no hyphen. 

Jack. Thanks. 

(There is an awkward pause.) 



A Bit of Instruction 107 

New. You remember seeing me at the Club? 
We've met there several times, you know — the St. 
Dives Club. 

Jack. Have we? 0, 1 dare say; I didn't remem- 
ber your face, for a moment, but one sees such a 
kaleidoscope of faces, you know, in a season. 

{A nother aiukward pause. ) 

New. {Rather explosively .) Late to-night, aren't 
you? 

Jack. Yes; rather. Why? 

New. 0, I've been waiting an hour or so, I fancy. 
That's how I dropped off — the room was so warm. 

Jack. If I had known of your visit 

New. 0, that's all right. I didn't know myself 
that I was coming. Just decided to, on the jump, 
you know. 

Jack. Yes? 

New. Yes. Thought I'd find you in about half- 
past eleven, perhaps. 

Jack. So you would, if the business-manager 
hadn't brought around an infernal pile of photo- 
graphs for me to sign, for the souvenir matinee. 
Strange what asses some business managers are. 

New. Autographed photographs, eh? Great 
idea, that. Pull in matinee-girls by the hundred, I 
dare say. 

Jack. I dare say {Yawns.) I beg your 



io8 A Bit of Instruction 

pardon, but I'm rather done up. It is late, as you 
say — and matinee day. 

New. I always supposed you play-actor chaps 
must rather revel in matinee days. 

Jack. Do you know any fellows who like working 
double time? If you do, I'll bet a tenner they're not 
in our line of work. 

New. Well, but aren't the matinees the really 
interesting days? Fancy playing to an audience of 
adorers. 

Jack. If they're adorers, they conceal it skillfully. 
I'd about as soon start out with Nansen, in search 
of a chill, as play to a matinee audience. 

New. The matinee maids must keep their warmth 
for their letters, then, eh? 

Jack. Bosh! When the papers get out of 
sea-serpent specials they write up matinee letters. 
They're a myth, mostly; though now and then 

New. (Rather eagerly.) Yes? Now and then? 

Jack. Well, now and then a fellow gets a letter 
that he'd like to enclose to a girl's mother, with a 
manual on '^The Duties of Parents." 

New. Bless you! Most of the mothers have let- 
ters of their own. The duties of parents are obso- 
lete, except in manuals. 

Jack. That view of it hadn't struck me. I don't 
do the society act enough to keep my morals up to 
date. 



A Bit of Instruction 109 

^N'ew. And the girls in your business, — I wager 
they're always getting letters you'd like to send to 
the chaps' fathers? 

Jack. N-no. I think I should prefer to talk 
that sort of letters over with the chaps themselves. 

{He takes a riding-ivliip from the table^ as 
if absent-mincledl2/, and nervously plays luith 
it.) 

New. {Indicating lohip.) With — accessories? 

Jack. As you say — with accessories. 

New. Wouldn't you have rather a chore, some- 
times, you know? Eafts of the fellows who write 
'em are working in the Gym. right along. 

Jack. Yes. I've put on the gloves with them 
there, now and then. 

New. There? 

Jack. Of course. I learned my A B C's at Har- 
vard, once on a time. 

New. Harvard? Why, I didn't know 

Jack. No. I've managed to conceal the fact 
from our press-agent, up to date. Yes, I've put on 
the gloves in the old Gym. more times than a few. 
Great sport! I say, wouldn't you like to try a bout, 
now? 

New. Now? Good Lord! No. What for? 

Jack. 0, nothing. I — I just thought you might 
feel like it. I felt like it. You don't mind my 
changing my shoes? 



no A Bit of Instruction 

{He leisurely exchmiges hoots for slippers.) 

You see, I've been doing a society part to-day; 
and I never did find tight boots compatible with 
repose of mind. 

New. 0, that's all right, Despard. By the way, 
— that reminds me to ask you something. We had a 
bet on, down at the Club to-night. 

Jack. {With polite horedo^n.) Yes? 

New. Yes. We were betting about your real 
name. Do you mind telling me what your real name 
is? 

Jack. {His exasperation is evidently growing 
tense. He opens his card-case, and hands Newhury 
Ms card.) My card. 

New. {Reads.) John Randolph Despard. 0, 
but I didn't mean your stage name, you know. 

Jack. Neither did I. My name's on that card. 
Is it necessary, to settle your Club bet, that I send to 
Virginia for my birth-certificate? 

New. Great Scott! You're not one of the 
Despards of 

Jack. My people rode with Light-Horse Harry. 
Did you think all actors were raised from bulbs, in 
window-glasses? 

New. Well, it's no wonder the matinee girls 

Jack. 0, da bless the matinee girls. I say, 

Newbury, you didn't come here at this ungodly hour 
to talk about matinee girls, did you? 



A Bit of Instruction 1 1 1 

New. Well, yes — perhaps — in a way. You see, 
the fellows at the Club were saying that — that it 
would be a good joke to see one of the real — what 
one of those matinee letters really was like, don't you 
know. 

Jack. (Rismg.) And they thought I might 
give them the chance of finding out? I say, what 
paper are you reporting for, Newbury? 

New. I? Reporting? 

Jack. If you're not doing the sneak reporter act, 
what the devil are you doing? 

(They face each other ^ in self-contained anger,) 

New. Do you mind telling me what you mean by 
treating me as if I were an intrusive ass? 

Jack. Do you mind telling me how else it would 
be appropriate for me to treat you? 

New. Will you explain yourself? 

Jack. How else would you treat a man who, on 
the strength of a Club introduction, wheels himself, 
uninvited, into your rooms, at midnight, — asks you 
whether your name is not an alias, — suggests that 
you can't make your hands keep your head, — winds 
up by inviting you to turn over to a parcel of Club 
loungers the confidence a silly girl or two have put in 
your decency? 

New. Why, — I thought — ^being an actor, — 
Bohemia, you know, and all that 



112 A Bit of Instruction 

Jack. You thought because actors sometimes 
have to sell their talents in a damned poor market, 
that we put up our private honor for sale at the same 
shop? That's a mistake; and you may find it a 
costly one. 

New. {After a short pause he peels off his right- 
hand glove ^ and offers his hand.) Shake? 

Jack. (Amazed.) Eh? 

New. Shake — won't you? You have such a jolly, 
convincing way of putting things, I thought I'd like 
to shake hands with you, don't you know. 0, I'm 
an ass, all right, Despard, and I'm a near-sighted 
ass; but when I do see a gentleman, I know the 
breed. I beg your pardon, Despard. Shake — will 

^ ' (They shake hands, heartily.) 

Jack. Have a cigar? 

New. Thanks. (They light cigars.) 

Jack. Sit down, won't you? 
(They sit.) 

Jack. (Reaching across table.) I say — Shake 
again, won't you? You see, Newbury, I've an 
infernal temper, and that's a fact. 

New. 0, that's all right. From your own stand- 
point, it was uncommonly kind of you not to pitch 
me down stairs. I say, one of the things I came in 
for, you know, was this : I want you to give me a bit 
of instruction. 



A Bit of Instruction 113 

Jack. Instruction isn't much in my line; but 
fire aliead. 

New. I want to know if you'll teach me to act, 
you know. 

Jack. To act? 0, well, a little thing like that, 
you know! {Looks at watch.) Quarter to one. Do 
you think you could give me till half-past four? 
With a college education as a foundation, you know, 
you really ought, 

New. Don't chaff. I'm in a beastly hole. You 
see, my cousin Ethel Marlborough — well, she really 
isn't my cousin, you know, but her mother married 
my uncle Jim. 

Jack. If you could skip the Creation, old fellow, 
and come to the Deluge 

New. 0, well, all right. You see, my cousin 
Ethel is getting up a fair. 

Jack. I sympathize with her relations. 

New. And she's determined to have one night of 
theatricals; and, hang it, you know, I've got to act. 

Jack. I transfer my sympathy to your relations. 

New. Yes ; I've got to act, because there's only 
one Ferdinand costume, and I'm the only fellow it 
will fit. 

Jack. ^'Ferdinand?" Great Shakespeare ! You 
don't mean that you are going to tackle '*The Tem- 
pest"? 

New. 0, but we are, then. You see, Ethel has 



114 A Bit of Instruction 

written a play, and we were going to give that ; but 
she thought we didn't have time to do it justice, and 
we'd better do something from Shakespeare. 

Jack. Well, perhaps he could bear it better. 
He's been dead a long time. 

New. We're just going to do a scene or two, you 
know. Ethel has been wild to have a go at Miranda, 
ever since she saw Ada Eehan do her, you know. 

Jack. Yes — naturally. And you're Ferdinand? 

New. Yes. Damned hard luck, isn't it? 

Jack. 0, I don't know. As I said, the author 
has been dead a long time. 

New. 0, hang it! I say, don't chaff. I mean 
bad luck for me. But I can't quit. The costume is 
such a dizzy fit; and then, you know, Ethel's to do 
Miranda; and there ai-e speeches that — well, you 
know, the family wouldn't like any one not a rela- 
tion, .... 

Jack. Such as a cousin by marriage. 

New. 0, it's just the same. She came into the 
family when she was in pinafores. And now, you 
see, I'm in for it; and I don't want to look a bigger 
fool than I can help. 

Jack. You naturally wouldn't. — No. 

New. And I thought you might be able to give 
me a leg up, in the log-rolling scene. 

Jack. Log-rolling scene is good — sounds polit- 
ical. 



A Bit of Instruction 1 1 5 

New. Hang it. Don't chaff. Will you, or 
won't you? 

Jack. 0, I will — I will. If there is anything on 
earth I find soothing and refreshing, it is teaching an 
amateur. Want to start in now? 

New. Might as well, eh? 

Jack. Come — business, business. {Pushes 
centre-table back, leaving clear space.) Where's 
Shakespeare? {Rummages among boohs on shelf.) 

New. Yes; you'd best have him handy. Ethel 
copied my part in her best Wellesley slant, and I've 
made out about one word in ten. {Produces a much- 
crumpled ma7iuscript.) 

Jack. Here we are — **Enter Ferdinand, with a 
logon his shoulder." Props — props; where's your 
log? {Hands him Indian Club: — business of getting 
it poised on his shoulder.) Come, now, Ferdinand, 
your lines — your lines. 

New. ** There be some spots are painful " 

{He rubs shoulder.) 

Jack. Good Lord ! What? Say that again. 
New. ** There be some spots are painful- 



That means his shoulder, doesn't it, where he's 
carrying logs? I supposed so; that's why I rubbed 
it. 

Jack. The line happens to be, '* There are some 
sports are painful " 



Ii6 A Bit of Instruction 

New. ^'Sports"— "Spots"? Hang Ethel's writ- 
ing! I've learned that "spots"; and it's the only 
thing in the whole confounded speech I understood. 
I thought the beggar had lamed himself, piling up 
logs, don't you know? Hang it, Despard! He says 
he's lame. Doesn't he say he's piling up logs "upon 
a sore injunction"? 

Jack. {In ecstasies of laughter.) 0, read it that 
way — read it that way. A new reading is a precious 
thing, you know; and it's not much queerer than 
some of the new Juliets. 

New. I say — Let's skip that speech, anyhow. 
What I really want to coach up on is that rigmarole 
he has to reel off to Miranda. They've run it all 
together for me, you know, because they say that if 
Miranda once stopped me I'd never get up steam 
again. Ethel won't have me in it at any price; she 
says I make love like a cigar -store Indian. 

Jack. Apparently she has critical gifts. Fire 
away. 

New. "0, my father. I've broke your head " 



Jack. Hold up! In the name of Stratford, 
what's the matter with your text? 

New. {Aggrievedly shoiving MS.) Confound 
it, man, see for yourself. "0, my father, I've broke 
your head to " 

Jack. Man alive, that's the cue — that's Miran- 
da"* s speech. 



A Bit of Instruction 117 

New. Well, why in Heligoland don't she say 
*'cue"? And, besides, Miranda didn't break her 
father's head, did she? 

Jack. Not according to Shakespeai'e. She says 
she "broke her father's best" — her father's "best" — 
behest — command, you know. 

New. I wish she'd talk English, then. I don't 
care what it is, as long as I don't have to break it. 
{Reads speech icitJi queer effects of punctuation^ and 
ahsolute imcomprehensioii of sensCy as — ) 

*' Admired Miranda — 

Indeed the top of admiration worth — 

What's dearest in the worldfull many a lady I have 

I have eyed with best regard and many a time. 

The harmony of their tongues. — Hath into bondage 

Brought my too — too " 

something-or -other *'ears for several virtues." (Out 
of breath.) Whew! How does the thing go on? 
I say, Despard, what gestures go with that kind of 
speech — eh? 

Jack. On my soul, Newbury, I don't know. 

New. Well, no matter; we can pick them out 
afterward. Let's see — — 

"I have liked several women? Never ! with so full 
soul 

But some defect in her did quarrel ; 

But, you ! you ! — 



ii8 A Bit of Instruction 

Jack. Man — man! — stop it, can't you? 

New. {Bewildered and aggrieved.) Stop what? 

Jack. Stop the execution. 

New. What execution? 

Jack. I wonder if you have the least idea how 
that fellow felt? 

New. What fellow? 

Jack. Ferdinand. 

New. Felt? Why, the chap wasn't a real chap, 
you know. 

Jack. Man, he was realer than you or I; and 
he'll last a blamed sight longer. Put yourself in the 
fellow's place, can't you? That's what you've got to 
do — not stand up there like a graven image, reeling 
off lines out of a book. Can't you see them there, — 
him and the girl? It's morning, you know, — the 
sea's out there — {New. tu7ms hewilderedly to see 
where.) — the sea, all shining in the sun; — and she's 
standing there, — just a girl, you know — just a girl — - 
with a girl's eyes; — just a slip of a thing, all in 
white, her eyes as blue as the sea, and the white 
stuff' falling back from her soft, pure little throat, 
and her yellow hair all blowing about in the sea- 
wind, . . . 

New. {In a daze.) I say, will she look like that? 

Jack. She did look like that, — she will look like 
that — thank God and Shakespeare — as long as youth 
is youth. And you stand there, worshiping her, and 



A Bit of Instruction II9 

aching for her ; — and one minute you want to crush 
her — here — (With a motion of strai7iing a womaii to 
his breast.) — and the next, you want to grovel there 
at her little feet, and cry your heart out; and her hig 
eyes are pitying you, — and something else — and she 
herself doesn't know what else — and it's going to be 
yours to teach her — yours, and no other man's on 
God's earth — and your heart just tears itself to your 
lips — and you say to her : 

Admired Miranda — 
Indeed the top of admiration, — worth 
What's dearest in the world. — Full many a lady 
I have eyed with best regard; and many a time 
The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage 
Brought my too diligent ear : for several virtues 
Have I liked several women : never any 
With so full soul, but some defect on her 
Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owned, 
And put it to the foil: but you, — you, — 
So perfect and so peerless, art created 
Of every creature's best. — Hear my soul speak. 
The very instant that I saw you did my heart 
Fly to your service: — there " 

New. 0, for God's sake — stop it, can't you? 
Jack. (In his turn bewildered.) Stop what? 
New. I can't stand it! 0, I see now, — I under- 
stand it — she couldn't help it. Poor little Ethel — 



I20 A Bit of Instruction 

she couldn't help it ! And it — it may not be so bad. 
You're a gentleman — if you are an actor, you're a 
gentleman, — but if you don't — if you're not good to 
her, — by God — I 

Jack. {In cold anger and amazement.) Do you 
mind telling me, Newbury, what you are talking 
about? 

New. Talking about? — I'm talking about my 
cousin Ethel. 

Jack. Your cousin Ethel? 

New. My cousin Ethel — the poor little girl who's 
been looking at you, — and you know it — who's been 
looking at you for weeks, with just such eyes as — as 
you said — my cousin Ethel — the girl who wrote you 
that letter that I 

Jack. On my honor, I don't know what you are 
talking about. 

New. You don't know — my cousin Ethel? 

Jack. I never saw nor heard of her in my life. 

New. Why, man, you must have seen her. 
She's at every last matinee you play. She's the 
little girl with the yellow hair and the big blue eyes : 
— she's only eighteen; — she always has a bunch of 
violets pinned to her seal-skin muff; — she's always 
eating sugared things, out of a silver filigree box. 
Why, do you mean to say 

Jack. I mean to say, my dear fellow, that I sup- 
pose at a hundred or so matinees a year there are a 



A Bit of Instruction I2i 

hundred or so sucli girls ; and I never saw one of 
them. 

New. But you said you never had heard of her; 
and she signed her full name to that letter she sent 
you ; she told Kit so. 

Jack. What letter? 

New. She told my sister Kit ahout it. Kit told 
me. She's no sneak, Kit; she's an awfully good 
sort; but she's older than Ethel; and she was scared 
blue when Ethel told her she'd sent that letter. 
You know, old chap, there are actors — that 

Jack. 0, yes, — I know. They're the kind that 
get into the newspapers. 

New. And she thought — Ethel did — she told Kit 
she knew — that you were all the time playing just to 
her — like Garrick did, you know, to Ada Ingot; — 
and she wrote to you and said that she — that if 
you 

Jack. Poor little girl! She wrote that? Poor 
little girl! Where's her mother? 

New. She died two years ago. 

Jack. Poor little girl ! I say, do you know when 
she sent that letter, Newbury? 

New. Yesterday morning. She told Kit, last 
night. 

Jack. Yesterday? I remember. {Opens table 
drawer!) I remember. I brought home a pocketful 
of things ; and I was so fagged, I fired them all in 



122 A Bit of Instruction 

here, and then cold forgot them. {He gathers up a 
number of letters, from drazver, a7id holds them all 

out, to Newhury.) Do you mind seeing — if 

(Newhury, after a moments search, selects 
one, and holds it out to him.) 

Jack. There's the fire. 

(Neiuhury slowly goes to fireplace, and 
thrusts the letter into the coals. Both men 
stand silently watching it burn.) 

New. {Gripping Jach^s hand hard.) Thanks, 
old chap. You — I — 0, damn it, you know what I 
mean. Thanks, old chap. You see, I've known 
her ever since she was in pinafores, and — I — {Dashes 
his hand across his eyes, and finishes, chokingly.) — 
I Thanks, old chap. 

Jack. 0, that's all right, Newbury. And — look 
here, — it'll be all right, — you'll see. All girls dream 
dreams. It'll be all right. 

New. {He puts on his coat, and prepares to go 
out, as he spealcs.) I — I'd like to — but I can't; — 
you know, don't you, Despard? {He crosses to Jack, 
hesitati7igly ,) I'm an ass to ask you, I know — but 
you don't suppose, — if you ever did meet her — hang 
it — she's such a dear little thing. 

Jack. {Op>ens a lochet that hangs at his loatch- 
chain, and holds it up.) See that? Well, that is 
the little girl I'm going to marry, if ever the Lord 



A Bit of Instruction 123 

and the managers let us stay in the same town long 
enough. Satisfied? 

New. Why, I know that face, don't I? Yes. 
By Jove, that's Maisie Marston, of the 

Jack. Yes, that is Miss Marston. 

New. (Musingly.) Maisie Marston — Why, she's 
the one, when I was in Yale, two years ago 

Jack. (With a dryness of voice.) Yes; she's 
the one. She showed me that letter you wrote her. 

New. (Aghast.) She — showed you — that letter? 

Jack. Yes. She's a way of showing me — all her 
letters of that sort. 

New. (After a pause, strips off loth Ms coats.) 
It's all I can do, old chap, — you know, — but if you 
like, I'll stand up to you, without the gloves. 

Jack. Put on your coat. Two years are two 
years. And, as you say, you were only an ass. 

New. (Ferve7itly .) Thanks, old chap! (He 
puts on his coat and starts to go. In doorway.) 
Good-night, Despard. 

Jack. Good-night. 0, I say, Newbury! If 
you're hereabout to-morrow night, look in, won't 
you, and we'll have another go at Ferdinand. 

New. Why, — if I may, — ^why, thanks, old chap! 



(Newlury goes out. Despard follows 
to door: calls '-'•Find your ivay., all rightV^ 
Newbury'' s voice answers from lelow, "0, yes., 



124 A Bit of Instruction 

thanks.'*'* The lotuer door closes. Despard 
closes his oivn door. He Hows out the la7np, 
leavi7ig only the red glow of the firelight. He 
crosses slowly to the mantel, and stands loohing 
down into the fire. After a moments pause, 
he opens the locJcet, and stands looking doivn, 
musingly, on the pictured face, 

(CUKTAIN.) 



A SONG AT THE CASTLE 



A ROMANTIC COMEDY 
IN ONE ACT 



A Song at the Castle 



CHARACTEES. 

CoRNWALLis, Viceroy of Ireland, and Commander- ^hUv* 
in-Chief of the British forces in Ireland. ^ /%/) 

Desmoid O'Moirne, a young Irish singer. ijd^i 

Col. Humphrey Morton, of the British army. \j^A^f\i>\» 
Sir Richard Wilde, Member of the English P^^-q^ 

liament. 
Marquis Raoul de la Valiere, an exiled noble- 

man of France. ' ' ,y 
A Servant. 

Lady Wyndham, a widow, sister to Lord Cornwallis. .1^^^^ 
Eileen Fitzgerald, the ward of Lord Cornwallis. "/^iCfju 

Time: Early evening of a night in July, 1798. ^ 

Place : Dublin Castle ; the state drawing-room. 
The curtain, rising, discovers Lady Wyndham, in 

a stately reception-gown ; and a servant, at the door, 

announcing — 

*This play was written in collaboration with Percy 
Wallace Mackaye. 

127 



128 A Song at the Castle 

**The Marquis de la Valiere." 

Valiere. {Entering and botoing.) Madame, 
your ladyship's most humbly obedient. Your lady- 
ship, it fears me, I am arrived — Je vous prie milles 
pardons — early, un peu. But one has informed me 
that this was the hour 

Lady W. You are most welcome and waited for, 
Marquis. This is the time. 

Valiere. Merci, Madame, and your — your lady- 
ship's daughter 

Lady ^Y. Not my daughter, nor my anything, 
thank Heaven! That wilful girl, who is my 
brother's ward! Lady Eileen will be with us in a 
moment. And this is for her? 

Valiere. {WJw lias been obsequiously proffering 
a small, silver -bound box.) For Mademoiselle 
Eileen, Madame, with birthday gratulations. They 
are mere nothings, mere diamonds; they cannot 
speak my admirations ; but if your ladyship shall add 
one look to brighten them! — Ah, speak v/ell for 
me to the young lady un seul mot, I — Pardieu! 
Madame, I die in English, but I will live most 
gi'atef ully in French ! 

Lady W. I should be too glad to speak in your 
behalf, if it were possible. But Lud! Marquis, such 
a girl ! Like a firefly on the breeze, now a sparkle, 
then whiff! and away again. She's just a fancy 
caught in the flesh. And fancy that nothing would 



A Song at the Castle 129 

do, but she must settle this most serious, most 
momentous question of the giying of her hand, on 
her birthday; and she must give out that fate may 
decide it, according to the gifts her suitors bring — 
the romantic minx — and of those suitors you are but 
one, Marquis. 

Valieke. But the worth of the giver — Mademoi- 
selle, sans doute, you think — she will possibly con- 
sider that? 

Lady W. Perhaps, yes; but only as indicated by 
the worth of the gift. And her standards of worth 
— I warn you her standards are fantastic standards of 
her own foolish making ! 

Valieke. (Sigliing tvith relief.) Ah! for a 
moment let my hopes be bright as my diamonds! 
And this decision ? 

Lady W. Will be made within the hour ; the 
chit promises it! And as it still lacks the hour 
before dinner, Marquis, may I show you to my 
brother's library, where the presents are to be laid for 
the judging? 

Valieke. I attend your Ladyship. Lord Corn- 
wallis is most hospitable — most hospitable! {Exit 
Lady W.) But — she is an Irish barbarian, this girl! 
Down what roads must a gentleman travel — Pardieu! 
— ^when he seeks a fortune! {Exit.) 

{Enter., from door hach^ or right, the foot- 
man., who opens his mouth to make announce- 



130 A Song at the Castle 

ment, hut is slioved aside hy Sir Richard 
Wilde, wlio enters talking luith Col. Morton.) 

Wilde. You met her at London, eh? 

MoETON". Yes, when she was at school there, 
before this damnable rebellion broke out. I've been 
here now two months under Cornwallis, since his 
Majesty appointed him Commander-in-Chief and 
Viceroy of Ireland ; it seems two centuries that I've 
heard nothing but the brogue of *' Blood!" in my 
ears, yelled by these starveling, lank-dog Irishmen. 
I believe they're as mad as the French jackals that 
bark about the guillotine at Paris. But she — ah, 
Dick! She 

Wilde. Has been a Venus in thy midnight, a 
Beatrice in thy Inferno, an angel in thy Job's tor- 
ments, eh, man? — eh? Egad, Humphrey, thou art 
strong with the Eomeo aroma. Great stuff, boy, but 
stuff to keep corked for the ladies. It's more 
precious to them than attar of roses, I can tell you ! 

MoKTON. Look you, Dick 

Wilde. Gad's life ! and it seems only yesterday 
we were at fisticuffs at Eton, you and I, about the 
grocer's daughter; and now to think we are at 
sword's points in an Irish castle, about the heiress of 
a hundred thousand. 

MoRTOK. Damn the heiress, it's the girl ! I tell 
you, she's perfection. 



A Song at the Castle 131 

Wilde. Capital! Why, then, let's split the 
difference. You want the girl, I want the heiress. 
Well, let each have his desire. Brief and plain. 
Hump, my card bill has run high, and my seat in 
Parliament is likely to become a bench in jail, with a 
bailiff for a valet. So in this little contest for the 
hand of Mistress Fitzgerald, I'll bet two to one on 
you — and call it five thousand pounds. Then if you 
win, you'll have the girl and the lion's share of the 
coin; if I win, why, you'll have some of the spoil, 
and, for a consideration, I think we could arrange 
about the girl. 

MoRTO]sr. Damnation, Man ! Do you take me for 
a rake-hell like yourself? {Crosses in anger. Wilde 
lightly laughs^ and takes snuff. After a slight 
pause — ) Well, and what chance have you, anyway, 
Dick? 

Wilde. The girl is just eighteen, mind you. 
Now, bluff and a baronetcy are my cards, and they 
trump credulity and romance. Why, what do you 
think this is? (Shotvs a small lox.) 

MoRTOi!^. Your bid, in this wooing bout? 

Wilde. Ay! and what, think you, is in it? 
Rubies and ivory? Folly! I am playing Bassanio 
to my little Lady Portia. So in this casket, lo ! for 
sixpence, I bring — forget-me-nots, 'fore Gad, forget- 
me-nots! {The doors are thrown open.) 

Morton. Hist ! Here comes his lordship. 



132 A Song at the Castle 

Wilde. Cornwallis? 
M0RT02S". Cornwallis. 

{Enter Cornwallis and Valiere.) 

CoRN'WALLis. I hear they keep it so hot in 
Paris, Marquis, that all the town has the rabies. 
By the way, is it catching, that madness? 

Valiere. Indeed, I have not been bit, my lord. 
All the gentlemen have left town. Ma foi, it is not 
safe except for bourgeoisie. 

CoRi^WALLis. What ! does not Monsieur le Eaoul 
de la Valiere find his name his fortress? Ah, 
Colonel, welcome to you ! So you are in these lists? 

MoRTON^. Entering them, my lord, in hope to 
be a guardian to your ward. Permit me to present 
you to an old friend and new rival of mine. Your 
lordship — Sir Eichard Wilde. 

CoRKWALLis. You are very welcome, sir. I had 
the good fortune to know your father at the misfor- 
tune in America. He helped me jump rope with 
Washington in New Jersey. He was well-named and 
daring. 

Wilde. Egad, sir, his eon is more so, to take a 
tilt in this tourney for Mistress Fitzgerald. (Look- 
ing at Valiere.) But I fear the odds are against us, 
Dick. The barber's should have been our armoury! 

Cornwallis. Your pardon, Marquis ; Sir Eich- 
ard Wilde — the Marquis de la Valiere. 



A Song at the Castle 133 

Wilde. Devilish glad to know you, Sir. 

Valiere. Your most obedient, monsieur. Ah, 
Monsieur le Colonel. {DicTc and Valiere talk aside. 
Morton offers Cor7iwallis snuff\) 

Morton. (Stiffly.) We have met. (To Corn- 
wallis. ) Does your lordship consider the rebellion at 
an end? 

CoRNWALLis. If hoping were believing, yes. 
The majority of the state prisoners have already 
offered to acknowledge their offences ; but the Irish 
parliament cries for Irish heads. Yet I think they 
blink, after all, the real mischief: — the deep-laid 
conspiracy to revolutionize Ireland on the principles 
of France. 

MoRTOK. The very point, my lord. Even now 
report says that the French are preparing two secret 
expeditions for the invasion of this country. 

CoRNWALLis. And that's a secret bugled by the 
winds. 

Valiere. Ah, mais, Messieurs, those be French 
footmen, not French gentlemen. 

CoRKWALLis. True, Sir; but footmen mounted 
on their masters, who foot it across the seas ! But, 
my friends, I pray you have done with politics ; this 
is a time to settle gentler affairs, and at this moment 
there is more at stake than empty empires. 

Wilde. (Aside to Morton.) Now the old boy 
talks. 



134 A Song at the Castle 

CoKNWALLis. The question pends — what gentle- 
man in this room shall sway the heart of a lady; and 
gentlemen, nothing — not even swords' points — may 
avail in this contest ; only the decision of my dear 
ward's lips. 

Wilde. {To Morton.) Gad, one would think his 
lordship included himself under *'gentlemen." 

(Here Eileen starts to run in, hut catclii7ig 

sight of the suitors^ scurries hack and peeps in 

from the edge of scene.) 

CoRNWALLis. So we must have patience until 

the lady arrives. It cannot be long; for this is the 

appointed time. And Mistress Eileen is not one to 

coquet with a promise. 

Valiere. Probablement she is still dressing, my 
lord. The ladies are. more careful of their beauties; 
they are always different from the men. 

CoR]!^WALLis. God save us then. Marquis; what 
Amazons your French ladies must be! But, gentle- 
men, while we wait, permit that I show you where to 
lay your gifts. By this way is to the gallery. After 
you. Sir. 

Wilde. Amazingly fine lodgings, these, your 
lordship. 

{Just as the last has passed through the 
door, and Corniuallis is ahout to follow^ Eileen 
trips stealthily across the room, trying to call 
Cornwallis^ attention hy whispering loudly — 



A Song at the Castle 1 35 

"Jfy lord! — My lord!^^ Failing^ she runs 
and pulls Mm hy the sleeve^ just as he is slowly 
passing through the doorway.) 

EiLEEi^. My lord ! My lord ! 

CoRKWALLis. You, Eileen! 

Eileen. What a shocking narrow escape ! Ah, 
tell me, my lord, whether to laugh or cry. A 
French muff, a London walking stick, and a big 
British army-gun — all in pursuit of one poor maid ! 
Dear, my lord, what shall I do? 

CoRNWALLis. I will return at once, and we will 
talk of this and much else ! But first I must usher 
these articles you mention where they may leave your 
gifts. 

Eileen. The gifts — ay, to be sure ! Have they 
brought many? Are they vastly fine? Ah, my 
lord, is it permitted to me to take the gifts, and 
leave the gentlemen? 

(Enter Rights Lady Wyndham, hurriedly.) 

Lady W. Eileen! And so I've tracked you at 
last. Maid Eunaway ! 

CoENWALLis. I will return within the moment. 
You will wait for me? 

Eileen. In this room, my lord ; and wholly on 
your pleasure. 

(Uxit Cornwallis — Ladies curtsy.) 

Lady W. (Eyeing Eileen with a look of reproba- 
tion.) Well! 



136 A Song at the Castle 

EiLEEK. (Bmocently.) Well? 

Lady W. And where have you been, Mistress 
Dalliance? 

EiLEEK. Up in the tower. 

Lady W. {Throwing ujj her hands.) The tower ! 
I'll warrant me thou art a miracle of dust! Lud, 
child! Do you forget this is your birthday? Do 
you forget that this very hour you have to decide the 
question of all your life — the question of your hus- 
band? 

Eileen". Well, for what was I up in the tower 
but to catch the earliest glimpse of them? 

Lady W. Of whom? 

Eileek. Of my husbands, to be sure. 

Lady W. Madcap ! 

EiLEEiS'. I've been watching hours for their 
arrival. {Laughing merrily.) Such wooers! For 
all the world, they came like the procession in the 
fairy tale, that dangled after the golden goose. But 
they shall find me of another feather. There, dear 
soul, do I shock thee? Indeed, then, I won't tell 
them I'm no goose! How many are there? 

Lady W. Why, there's Monsieur de la Valiere, a 
gentleman of the highest manners 

EiLEEi^. De la Valiere! He's a fortune for a 
lady's wig-maker, not a lady's self! But how many 
other guests are there for the dinner? Is — I pray 
you — is Mr. O'Moirne arrived yet? 



A Song at the Castle 137 

Lady W. Is who arrived? 

EiLEEi^. I said Desniond O'Moirne. 

Lady W. And what man is he? 

Eileen-. The manliest in Ireland. 

Lady W. Desmond O'Moirne — Preserve ns! 
Eileen, yon never mean that singer in the opera — 
that hothead lad — that Irish rebel, whose father was 
hanged — ay, hanged in this very city — for high 
treason. Girl ! Yon have never been so mad as to 
bid such a guest to Dublin Castle? 

EiLEEK. Ay, have I — and I stand to it! And 
there will sit at my birthday dinner no nobler guest 
than the lad with the voice in his heart and the 
heart in his voice — his sole leaving of a ruined for- 
tune — and who with his voice brought Dublin to his 
feet, till the English murdered — ay, murdered his 
father, I say, and sent him over sea. But I have 
Desmond O'Moirne's promise for my birthday 
night; and Ireland knows what an O'Moirne means 
by a promise ! He 

Lady W. Promised you? Lud ! Lud ! 

EiLEEi^. We spoke of my birthday ; that birthday 
that was to bring my birthright. And he pledged 
me for that birthday the gift of a song ; and he will 
be here to sing it ! 

Lady W. Are you daft, child? Why, the man's 
an exile; he's in England. 

EiLEE]^. But he will come. 



138 A Song at the Castle 

Lady W. Travel a hundred miles and risk his 
neck for a song ! 

EiLEEi^. But he will come. 

Lady W. Heavenly goodness ! but he must not ! 
You hear ! He must not ! What ! He sing for your 
birthday dinner? — He, — a beggar, an Irish beggar, 
his estates confiscated, he — you're mad, child! 
You're mad! 

EiLEEJsr. But he shall come. 

Lady W. Heaven's patience ! But he is not 
come ! and I believe you are frightening me to exas- 
peration only for your wicked sport ! May God be 
thanked I am not a man with a hankering to be your 
husband! He has not come! — And I'll make his 
welcome sure, should he come! {Exit.) 

EiLEEiq^. But he will come! And the gift he 
brings shall be my gift, though my heart is the price 
that buys it ! 

{Enter Cornimllis.) 

CoRN'WALLis. My thanks that you waited me — 
and alone ! I have been impatient to speak with you 
all day. 

Eileen. I am at your service, my lord ! 

CoRNWALLis. '*My lord?" Why must to the 
heavy burden of my state be added that word from 
your lips, Eileen? Will you not call me — something 
else? A thousand to whose ears I give commands 
have tongues that lisp *'your lordship." Where I 



A Song at the Castle 139 

would take commands, it is for me to say *'my 
lady." Then, my little Lady Eileen, will you not be 
she to fill an empty title? 

EiLEEK. {Evidently a hit startled at his manner.) 
Ah, my — Sir, I'll wager you could tutor those 
younger gentlemen in pretty speech. Ah, would you 
could! Their compliments but woo to drowsiness! 

CoRN'WALLis. I would that all my white hairs 
were but in my wig, as theirs are. Think you, you 
could like me better then, Eileen? 

Eileen. Faith, not I, my lord — I mean, I mean, 
dear guardian ! I would not have you other than you 
are! 

CoRNWALLis. My girl, there's something in a 
soldier's life that never lets youth's fire go out. 
Powder and the flash of swords, the jostle of life and 
death, the fording of streams and ocean wanderings, 
and all that makes the rough romance of war — these 
things blow off the settling ashes from the living 
ember, and leave still a heart-leap at three-score. 

Eileen". I am sure of it. There's no calling so 
glorious as a soldier's, unless — unless 

CoRKWALLis. Unless? 

Eileen". Unless — maybe — a singer's! 

CoRNWALLis. A singer's, child? 

Eileen". Ay, Sir, a singer's! For a singer may 
wake the fiery call to battle in a thousand hearts, and 
make a thousand soldiers ! 



I40 A Song at the Castle 

CORKWALLis. When was a singer ever a soldier? 
But, child, I did not ask this hour to talk of soldiers ; 
Eileen, have you any memory of my wife, who died 
while yet you were a child? 

EiLEEK. Aye, indeed, dear guardian, I remem- 
ber her ; a lovely lady. 

CoRNWALLis. A lovely lady! I met her at your 
age ; she was much as you are ; you are like her : so 

like her that {Eileen hirns aicay.) Nay, 

child, do I weary you? 

EiLEEiq". Believe me, no, my lord; I but remem- 
bered how swift the hour was passing. 

CoRiS'WALLis. Before it passes, Eileen, will you 
not ask ftie what I bring you as a birthday gift? 

EiLEEi^. Ah, Sir ! I cannot fancy what there is 
left in your generosity for you to give me. 

CoRNWALLis. Yet without the gift I bring, how 
incomplete were any woman's joy ! 

Eileen". Eiddles, my lord! What is this gift? 

CoRN^WALLis. What every woman desires most in 
this world. 

Eileen". And what is that? 

CoRNWALLis. What but her own will! I give 
you for your birthday gift, Eileen, the promise of a 
soldier to grant to you this day, whatever you may 
ask of my power ; and this day it is my good fortune 
to command all temporal things in Ireland. 

Eileen. {Kisses his limid.) Ah! Thanks, my 



A Song at the Castle 141 

lord — a thousand, thousand thanks! You have 
brought a far more splendid gift to my birthday than 
any of the three who call themselves my suitors. 

CoRNWALLis. Three suitors? Eileen, what if 
there were four? 

EiLEEK. Four ! Has another, — is any new guest 
come? 

CoRKWALLis. A new suitor, so I am told. And 
he has already presented his gift, Eileen. 

EiLEEK. You have seen him? Ah, who is he, 
dear my lord? 

CoRNWALLis. One whom you know nearly, and 
he hopes dearly. 

Eileen. And you say he is here now? — here? Is 
he — is he from England? 

CoEKWALLis. He is, from England. 

EiLEEif . Ah, where is he? My lord, where is he? 

CoRNWALLis. He has fears. He is not as your 
other suitors, in aspect or in nature. 

Eileen. Ah! that he is not, indeed! A thou- 
sand times more noble ! 

OoENWALLis. Great Heaven! You say that, 
child? Dear child — Eileen — then you have guessed 
— ^his name? 

Eileen. Ah, Sir, it is — it is 

CoRNWALLis. Your loving servant — Charles 
Cornwallis. 

Eileen. My lord ! 



142 A Song at the Castle 

CoR]srwALLis. A time-scarred soldier, Eileen — 
Charles Cornwallis. 

Eilee:n'. my lord! My lord! {Covers her 
face until her limids.) 

Cornwallis. She did not gness his name — 
'Sdeath ! I'm old — I'm old — and foolisher than old ! 
Poor child! Poor little girl! Eileen, that word's 
nnsaid, that your tear-filled silence answered — whis- 
tle it down the wind ! 

EiLEEK. my lord — I never dreamed — I never 
dreamed — I who have ever honored and loved you as 
your child! 

Cornwallis. Child of my heart forever ! It was 
I who dreamed! Ah, child, the sweet spring fire of 
youth is in your eyes ; and there must have been just 
a bit of rubbish in my old breast that caught and 
burned one foolish instant. But it has blazed away 
and it has gone out forever! There, there, lass! 
That very old fool, your guardian, is a soldier 
again ! 

Eileen. Ah, my dear, dear lord, you will have 
from me all the heart of a daughter now and always. 
That is better — ah, is it not better? 

Cornwallis. Much better, child — for you! 
Yes — go, child, go! In a moment they will summon 
us to dinner. {Kisses her forehead.) And that is 
the seal of my birthday gift — ^your will, to my 
power's limit! 



A Song at the Castle 143 

EiLEEi>r. My whole heart's gratitude to you, my 
lord— for all ! For all ! (Exit.) 

CoRi^WALLis. That I should have yearned for 
her— impossible ! But to have hoped — worse ; worse ! 
But to have spoken — that was most utter madness of 
it all! Ah, when, when will December learn that 
the width of the year stands betwixt him and May ! 
When will he learn that December must pass to give 
May room! , {Exit Cornwallis.) 

(Enter the servant^ slioivmg in O^Moirne, 
who is travel-stained and tired. He comes in 
looking about him wistfully.) 

Servakt. You said — you were expected. Sir? 

Desmokd. Ay! I think I am expected ! 

Servant. I will announce you, Sir! (Exit.) 

Desmois^d. And this is the Queen's palace — at 
last! Eileen, is it near me that you are, sweet? 
Eileen! I shall see you, speak with you — sing to 
you? 'Tis to your own castle I come, to say in one 

song — what God ! Will they let me sing — me 

in Dublin castle? Here, where the echoes of smoth- 
ered liberty's last cry are scarcely still! Ah, Mary 
Virgin, for my love's sake, teach me how to keep my 
love's promise! 

(Enter Eileen hurriedly; she starts on 
seeing Desmond.) 



144 A Song at the Castle 

Eileen. Desmond? 

Desmond. Eileen! 

Eileen. You — you took me unaware, Mr. 
O'Moirne. I had not heard that you were come, but 
you are welcome ; believe me, you are very welcome ! 

{8he extends her hand which he takes and 
hisses.) 

Desmond. You had not heard, Mistress Fitz- 
gerald? But sure you had not forgot that I stood 
pledged to come? 

Eileen. I had not forgot ; though indeed there 
has been time for forgetting since we met ! 

Desmond. Just half a summer and a century of 
winters. 

Eileen. Have thoughts of me had such a cold 
reception, then? 

Desmond. ISTo, for they were ever doing as the 
birds do — migrating to a sunnier clime, over the Irish 
sea. 

Eileen. Mr. O'Moirne, I am disappointed; I 
flattered myself the first place you would come to in 
Ireland would be this castle. 

Desmond. Why, but so it was — the first and 
only ! You don't believe me? 

Eileen. Yes, if you'll give me word you've not 
been climbing for a kiss at the stone of Blarney 
Castle. 



A Song at the Castle 145 

Desmond. (SmMig.) Mistress Eileen is still 
herself, I see — still setting traps for runaway slaves. 

EiLEEi^. Alack! I'd liefer my word should 
attract only freemen that come of their own brave 
will. 

Desmond. What can one do? Since yon speak 
sceptres, my lady, I must reply with vassalage. 

Eileen. Your words are clever courtiers. Sir. 

Desmond. Then would I could dismiss them, 
that so my heart might stand without retinue and 
speak in feeling. Ah, Mistress Eileen, then you 
might hear how deeply I wish you joy of this day — 
your birthday. 

Eileen. And are you not pledged^o tell me that 
in a song? 

Desmond. Then you still care that I should tell 
it so? 

Eileen. I think I never cared so much till 
to-night. 

Desmond. And I may tell of my joy in coming, 
and you will listen? 

Eileen. If it be not selfish for me to ask so much 
joy, as would be mine in listening. 

Desmond. (Walking back and forth.) I must! 
My heart is full — my throat aches — my thoughts they 
are prisoned eagles. Ah, but no! If I sang, it 
would be strange joy, my lady, I have to utter; for 
the core of it is pain. Eor who am I to sing at your 



146 A Song at the Castle 

fine feasting, with British ears of stone to listen? 
What can I hring out of my country's dungeon to 
grace an English holiday? What flowers out of her 
trampled fields? What gift as a tribute to you, my 
lady, — I, that come beggared, wrapt in a tattered 
title? What indeed am I? — An Irishman, alas ! An 
Irishman, thank God! 

EiLEEK. Amen to that "thank God." 

Desmoi^d. And you say that? 0, then you will 
for one mad minute listen to an Irish heart that can- 
not keep its head. My lady, you are here; I am 
here ; we have been apart and it was long. I came 
but to say God prosper you and good-bye ; but now 
— now — now — I am come to say I love you, and — I 
love you — and I love you. No, no, do not speak. 
A power like the wind has borne me here; 'tis a 
power like the whirlwind that could carry me away 
before all's said! Eileen, far across the seas, your 
eyes called me — called me back through grief and 
shame and blood here to your feet, and here I lay the 
life of me. My being is no longer mine; it is Love's 
— and yours, Eileen! — Eileen! {She moves slowly 
toward Imti. He gazes at her with passionate tender- 
ness. She is about to speak, when Lady Wyndham 
enters.) 

Lady W. Heavenly powers! Eileen, child — 
what 

Desmond. {Rising.) Madame, — I — Madame — 



A Song at the Castle 147 

Mistress Fitzgerald has been detained at my fault. 
You are in good time. I — I have much wronged 
her leisure. 

Lady W. Mistress Fitzgerald, his lordship, your 
guardian, desires your attendance directly. 

EiLEEK. {Haughtily.) Have the goodness to tell 
his lordship 

Lady W. No, child, have the goodness yourself. 
I take no nays to Lord Cornwallis. 

Desmond. Madame, may I be permitted to see 
Lord Cornwallis and explain my presence here? 

Lady W. Lud, Sir, no; I don't think it; his 
lordship is very busy. It is his dinner hour. Come, 
Eileen. 

EiLEEiS". And this gentleman is Lord Cornwallis' 
dinner-guest — and mine! {To Desmo7id.) Forgive 
me. Sir, for the moment I must attend my guardian's 
summons ; but it is but for the moment. You will 
wait my return — Desmond? You will wait? 

Desmond. I will wait. {Exit Mleeji ayid Lady 
W.) My God! How can I stay? But I have prom- 
ised — and my song is still unsung! I'll wait; — and 
waiting, dream a thousand different ways how she did 
call me Desmond. 

{Enter Morton, Wilde a7id Valiere.) 

Valiere. Pardieu! The Irish singing fellow 
who set Paris in a flame ! Why is he here? 



148 A Song at the Castle 

Wilde. Why are we all here? 

MoKTON". A suitor? — He? — At any price we must 
be rid of him. The girl's a dreamer; and his voice 
wakes dreams. 

Wilde. Leave me to deal with him. He came a 
snitor; he shall go as a traitor. Play up to me. 
Do you bite? 

MoKTOK. A hot-head Irishman — You're right. 
'Tis easy ! 

Wilde. Marquis, it is growing late. Is that 
fateful dinner never to come off? 

Valieke. I am no better informed than yourself, 
Monsieur le Colonel. 

Wilde. Well, I for one am tired of this and need 
refreshment. {To Desmofid.) Fellow ; a glass of wine ! 

Desmokd. Sir? 

Morton. Or three glasses, rather, and quickly. 
What ! I said quickly. 

Desmond. You will now say quickly. Sir, that 
you can see your mistake. 

MoETON. I neither see it, nor solicit news of it 
from footmen. More wine and less words. You 
may go. 

Wilde. 'Pon honor, Humphrey, have patience; 
give the fellow a shilling, can't you? Here, Eobin- 
son, Johnson, what's your name? {Offers Mm a 
coin.) 

Desmond. {Disdainfully to Wilde.) Sir, I 



A Song at the Castle 149 

speak to the one man I see ! ( WitJi repressed anger, 
to Morton.) You, Colonel Morton, have either lately 
grown short of sight, or have yet to learn that foot- 
men do not carry swords; either of which misfor- 
tunes I am your servant to alleviate. 

Morton". O'Moirne! Upon my soul, and so it 
is ! Your pardon, Mr. O'Moirne, but really you have 
much altered — and here was the last place I looked 
to meet you. 

Wilde. O'Moirne — O'Moirne. Why, didn't I 
hear we were to have a song from one O'Moirne with 
the fiddling to-night? Egad, singing can't be the 
most profitable trade in the world ! 

Valiere. The same, Monsieur, sans doute. He 
has the air of the stage — ah? 

Desmond. If Colonel Morton finds me altered in 
estate since we last met, it is surely thanks in part to 
Colonel Morton and those who have brought altera- 
tion to my country. 

Morton. Say rather those whose paternal care 
would not suffer your country to be maltreated by her 
children. 

Desmond. Ireland's sons have been taught to 
keep good guard of her. And when a meddling 
neighbor knocks at her door, they have but barred it 
fast, and died upon its sill to keep him out. 

Morton. It is perhaps well for your neck, Sir, 
that your mouth speaks in parables. 



150 A Song at the Castle 

Desmokd. For the caution, thanks; I will eat 
patience. 

Wilde. That's food that gives an Irishman dys- 
pepsia. 

Valiere. Ah, Monsieur O'Moirne, it is a happi- 
ness you are to sing to us. You sing in opera, yes? 
But it seems you play no more the hero since — since 
your little rehellion here. 

Desmokd. I have heard the same of you. Mar- 
quis; I believe you no longer play the hero in 
France, since your little rebellion there. 

Wilde. Zounds ! There's a clip for the French 
poodle. 

Valiere. But there is one difference. Monsieur. 
In France, the gentlemen are obliged to flee; in 
Ireland, it seems otherwise; for here all gentlefolk 
are English. 

Desmoid. Sir, you have an Irish hostess. 

Valiere. {With a taunting smile.) 0, but has 
Monsieur heard never of the legend of the chamber- 
maid with a fortune, to whom lords came a-wooing? 

Desmokd. {Striking him in the face with his 
glove.) You damned scoundrel! Now, by Heaven! 
Patience spells cowardice here! Bullies! Because 
I am an Irishman, you think to risk your taunts and 
see me swallow them with smiles. You are three to 
one ; you think yourselves secure in the presence of 
the Viceroy and this roof's hospitality. The very 



A Song at the Castle 151 

color on your backs is the red badge of conquering 
crime, the stained symbol of Irish hearts that bleed 
even now upon the withered shamrock. Take that 
truth, gentlemen, from an Irish heart, and disprove 
it on an Irish sword! 

{All draw their stuords; Desmo7id heeps 
Morton and Wilde at lay^ ivliile Valiere rims 
to the door. The chief bout is betwee?i Des- 
mond and Morton, Desmond getting the upper 
ha7id, while Wilde aids Morto?i on the out- 
shirts.) 

Morton". This is treason. Keep him close. 
Call the guard. 

Valiere. Treason ! Guard — ^guard, ho ! Treason 
and swords ! 

Wilde. Guard yourself, Humphrey; or we shall 
not only call "treason" but "murder." Treason 
ho! 

{Enter Cormvallis., folloiued by Eileen.) 

CoRNWALLis. Gentlemen, put up your swords. 
Take shame! What is this, gentlemen? 

MoRTOiS". Treason, my lord. Here stands a rebel 
who has slandered the king. 

Valiere. Guard ho! Bring here the guard ! 

CoRi^WALLis. {With acerbity.) And bid them 
hold all those who have drawn a sword! Gentle- 
men, may we have quiet? {To Desmond.) Sir, you 



152 A Song at the Castle 

stand here as my guest. Yon are accused of treason. 
Have you any defense to offer? 

Desmond. None, my lord; I have spoken my 
heart — and it is the heart of an Irish rebel. 

CoRNWALLis. And was that well done, beneath 
an English roof? 

Desmon'D. Your lordship, this castle was built by 
Irish hands, for the home of Irish gentlemen! 

OoRNWALLis. Go, while you are still my guest. 

{Desmo7id sheathes his stvord, and with a 
deep salutation, tur?is to go.) 

EiLEEK. My lord, he is my guest also, bid for 
my birthday pleasure. 

Valieee. Bid to give Mademoiselle a birthday 
song. Pardieu ! Doubtless an air from the Beggar's 
Opera. 

CoRNWALLis. Gentlemen — I pray you merit your 
designation! Mr. O'Moirne, your hostess begs you 
to remain her guest, and for the pleasure of your 
promise. 

Desmoid. Your lordship, it is true that I came 
over sea but to bring this lady the gift she honored 
me to ask — the gift of one poor song. But the song 
I brought here in my breast has already said itself to 
her, in words past her forgiving; and now the only 
song that tears my heart for singing is not a song it 



A Song at the Castle IS'3 

would pleasure you^ my lord and gentlemen, to hear. 
I take my leave. 

EiLEEi^. Whatever the song — I claim your prom- 
ise — Desmond ! 

MoKTOi^. {Aside.) "Desmond!" The devil! 

Valieke. Apparently the gentleman is bankrupt 
even in promise. 

DESMOiq^D. But not yet, thank God, bankrupt in 
song! Gentlemen, you shall for once lend English 
ears to the word of Ireland ! 

(He sings '■^The Wearing of the Green.'''^ 
Ending loith a hurst of high feeling, Desmond 
hands Cornwallis his sword. Cornwallis loohs 
at it coldly.) 

CoEKWALLis. This time, young Sir, I cannot bid 
you go ; your liberty is forfeit. Nay, not to me your 
sword. That is for another custodian. 

Valiere. Ho, guard! Why does not come the 
guard? 

EiLEEi^. My lord! This day you gave me prom- 
ise! My will, my lord — my will to be once granted 
to the utmost of your power. My will is Desmond 
O'Moirne's life and liberty. He has brought me the 
gift of a life forfeit for love and honor. Let him go, 
my lord — and where he goes, I go with him! 

Desmond. Eileen! My God! Eileen! 

EiLEEK. My lord? 



154 A Song at the Castle 

CoEiTWALLis. I cannot bestow as your birthday 
gift this gentleman's life or liberty. 

MoKTON. I thought there were some bounds to 
chivalry ! 

Eileen". You can not? Say rather, my lord, you 
will not! Where is your pledged word, my lord? 
Yours is the power 

CoRNWALLis. Child, my power here stands 
powerless. I cannot grant you his life and liberty as 
your holiday boon, I say, for I had granted them 
already; the free gift of a soldier to a soldier's deed! 
Your boon is still your own to ask. 

EiLEEK. {Kneels. ) Then — my lord ! my dear, 
dear lord ! Let it be your blessing and your pardon ! 

Desmoid. My lord, I never thought to say, an 
Englishman has conquered me! {Kneels^ offering 
sword.) 

(Curtain.) 



ROHAN THE SILENT 

A ROMANTIC DRAMA 
IN ONE ACT 



Rohan The Silent 



OAST OF CHARACTBES. 
f Sir: 



BoHAN" (called the Silent, son of Sir Robert Fulford). 
SiK Philip Eociiemont. W-^ 
Sir Robert Fulford. 

GODWIK, 



His Liegemen. 



Beowulf, 

GOBYK, 
JOHIT, 

Godfrey, a Priest. 
Isobel, Sir Robert's Ward. 
Nurse Elfrida. 

The time is 1200 A. D. The scene is the court- 
yard of Sir Robert Fulford's castle on a morning of 
early spring. 

NOTE ON THE PLAY. 

Rohan, son of Sir Robert Fulford, has been 
stricken dumb in early childhood, at the sight of his 
mother killed at his feet in the courtyard. Sir Rob- 

*This play was written in collaboration with Emma 
Sheridan Fry. 

157 



158 Rohan The Silent 

ert Fulford has pledged his word that if at the 
expiration of fifteen years his son remains dumb, his 
nephew, Sir Philip Eochemont, shall be received at 
Castle Fulford as his acknowledged heir. Sir Philip 
has vainly sought in marriage Isobel, Sir Eobert Ful- 
ford's ward. Hearing that she purposes to leave the 
castle "to betake her to other living" before he 
comes into possession as the heir-to-be, Philip comes 
some time before the hour agreed upon, demanding 
that maid and castle be yielded up to him. What 
follows upon his demand, the hour portrayed in the 
play sets forth. 

SCENE. 

Castle in the twelfth century. Castle walls run- 
ning from JR. 1st, to tipper L. Castle to the R. 
Entrance to castle R. 2. Steps to wall L. 2. Gates 
in wall L. 3. A spinning wheel just below steps 
leading to castle. An entrance letween castle and 
wall up R. Baching of hills and shy seen over 
wall. Shins thrown about court. Bench for spin- 
ning wheels other benches^ etc. At rise of curtain 
Gobyn is seated on bench R. Godwin is pacing 
stage, centre to bach. Beoiuulf is entering from cas- 
tle. John is seated on edge of table X, polishing 
sword. Two liegemen are seated at same table, L. 

JoHK. {Crossing to Gobyn and showing sword.) 
There's a rare polish, eh, Gobyn? 



Rohan The Silent 159 

GoBTN. {Pushing Mm laughiiigly tack.) Sit 
thee down and stare at thy face in it ! 

[John crosses back to L.) 

GoDWii^. {Coming down.) Nay, let him save it 
for fighting; mayhap Philip's face will show in it. 

JoHiq-. Ay, fight! Fight! 

GoBYN. Hear the boy ! Beowulf may have other 
telling. 

JoHisr. Fight, I say ! Kill Philip and his archers ! 
Ah, but fighting is rare play ! Will Philip and his 
archers soon be here, think you? Fight ! I say ! 

Godwin". Put thy strength in thine arm, boy! 
Warriors fight not out of brawling throats. 
«^' Beowulf. I wot thou 'It not need thy toy, for all 
thy shouting, good boy John. 

GoDWiK. Says our lord so, Beowulf? Now, by 
my soul! Shall Philip stuff our throat with insult, 
and shall we stomach at his pleasure? 

John. Thou'lt ever answer for a man. Quoth 
Beowulf, John — I have a tongue. 

GoBYN. 'Twere better for our ears that thou wert 
dumb like Eohan. 

^Beowulf. {Crossing to L. C.) No insult, God- 
win, for all ye breathe so hard. Our lord. Sir Robert 
Fulford, has made an oath ; the day has come, and 
Philip holds him to it. That's no insult. 

Godwin. Yea, insult, say I ! Why comes Philip 



i6o Rohan The Silent 

a sun's space before his right? Is there no insult? 
Why comes he in war's wise and to demand, and not 
as kinsman, to accept? Is there no insult? And 
when all's said, the oath is fifteen years grown dry. 
'*" Beowulf. An oath's an oath. 

GoBYN". A good oath, too. We cannot have a 
dumb dolt set up over us for lord. 

GoDWuq". Nor can we have a proud-mouthed 
Norman crying us to bend, before that we are ready. 
The oath was made in a mind-heat. 

GoBYi^. Not so! Eohan had been dumb and 
dolt a year. Do you mind you, Beowulf, how we 
counselled our Lord Eobert to wait not, but to take 
this Philip then for a son, and for young lord, and 
put the daft boy Eohan by? 

John. This same Philip knocking at our gates? 

Godwin". Ay. I've heard; but the mother's eyes 
looked out of Eohan's face; and our lord would not. 

GoBYN. Our lord would not then ; but now the 
cause is Philip's. 

John. Shall we not fight? 
Beowulf. Sir Philip Eochemont hath six hun- 
dred archers in his wages ; — e'en though his cause were 
not so good, we durst not come within his danger. 

Godwin. Durst not? S'body! Durst not? 

GoBYN. Mark him for a fighter ! 

GoDTViN. Ay, sword-stroke is my shrift. Not 
leech-death or straw-death dies my blood. 



Rohan The Silent i6i 

JoHK. We're a poor few at six hundred; but a 
big many to sit and do no fight. 

GoDWii^. Sooner than see these gray walls give 
without some war -play, to Philip, I'll swear fealty to 
our lord's stall-fed son, Rohan! {All laugh.) 
--' Beowulf. Rohan, the shuttle-thrower? Our 
castle needs a lord. Why should we break our hau- 
berks barring up the gates when we must needs invite 
this Philip, will or nill? 

GoDVV^iiT. A lord, mayhap, but why this sneak- 
eyed Philip? 

^ Beowulf. See how the name frets him ! Sooth 
Godwin hath not forgotten how Philip wooed fair 
Isobel. (All laugh.) 

Godwin. Peace! 

GoBYK. Ay there's the core o' the thing! Says 
Godwin, — An Philip take the castle to-day, the 
maid's within the castle ; — let him bide till the mor- 
row, and she may be otherwhere ! 
^" Beowulf. 'Twere a good thought to send the 
girl out to him. (Crosses to L. near Gohyn.) 

Godwin. No, by Saint Jude, not so ! (All laugh.) 
'-■ Beowulf. He's a brave tilt for a lady's eyes ! 

Godwin. Enough! Shall the dove mate the 
hawk? If Philip must be lord, let him abide till he's 
bidden; and that's not till the morrow's morn! 

GoBYN. Well said ! And let us send the girl for 
hostage. (Mark him ! Mark him !) 



1 62 Rohan The Silent 

GoDwii^^. Peace ! Thy tongue wags as thou wert 
lord. 

John . Where's Kohan while his castle slips his hold? 
"- Beowulp. Where is he always? In the woods at 
talk with the heasts. (All laugh.) 

GoDWiK. What answer sent our lord, when 
Philip's messenger came in at sun-up, demanding 
open gates? We are not in our lord's good council- 
ing, though ours the fighting. 

GoBTN. Nay, no fight. Thou hast forgot the 
maid for hostage. (Mark him, how his brow knots !) 

GoDWiK. Peace ! 

(Enter Isoiel L from castle. All rise to 

salute her. Godwin crosses^ and lends above 

her hand.) 

IsoBEL. I am come to bid you to a consult with 

our lord. Sir Eobert Fulford; of such matters, thus 

his word, as concerneth greatly to the weal of all. 

Godwin. Fair lady, thy news doth all but match 
thyself for fairness. 
*^- Beowulf. {Aside to men.) Mark him! 

IsoBEL. Nay, Godwin, heavy news; our lord 
looked felly on me. Methinks the business hath 
much weight. 

Beowulp. And so it should have. Have with you. 

{The meUy folloiuing Beowulf, exeunt lei- 
sicrely into castle, by iqjj^er R. entrance. As 



Rohan The Silent 163 

they go, tJiey indicate to each other, laugh- 
ingly, in dumb shoio, Godwin lending above 
IsobeVs hand. Godtvin follows them, after a 
salute to Isobel, of marked respect.) 

IsoBEL. {To nurse luho enters R. from castle 
behind her.) Nay, nurse, thou shalt not chide. 
{Isobel runs up steps in wall.) I've more heart to 
wink at the sunshine than at the gloom within. I'll 
lift me nearer by the height of a wall. 

Nurse. Nay, madcap, down! 

Isobel. That I'll not — I can see 

Nurse. Sir Philip's archers, mayhap. Down! 

Isobel. Nay, I care not. 'Twere a goodly sight, 
some archers ! Here we have no fighting ! Yet why 
Sir Philip's? I would rather see the archers of some 
other lord than he. 

Nurse. Come down, I say! 

Isobel. Yet any archers were a pretty sight to 
look at. Here we do nothing. Here no one ever 
lifts a sword, save 

Nurse. Wilt thou down ! 

Isobel. All are old and feeble here, all save 

Nurse. Thou'lt leave me here midway the step- 
ping stones? Thou'lt see thy old nurse fall? Oh! 
Oh! 

Isobel. {Running down, and to her.) Nurse, 
dear nurse, thou shouldst bear a staff ! 



164 Rohan The Silent 

NuKSE. To trounce thee with ! (Business.) No 
one lifts a sword here save who, mammet? 

IsoBEL. (Seats her self on bench.) Save — save 

(Aside.) Now would my tongue were bitten off! 
Save — I know not. 

NuKSE. Save — ^you know not! And we with 
three good leaders for the fight within our walls ! 

IsoBEL. Three? Tln-ee? Oh, nurse! Three? 

NuESE. Ay, three! Beowulf, Gobyn and God- 
win, — think how Godwin lifts a sword! 

IsoBEL. Ay, but nurse, I've seen a sword lifted 
more well — I've seen it cleave the air like a swift loop 
of light. I've seen it poise so still you'd think man 
and sword were stone — ay — and the man 

NuESE. Where hast thou seen this? Ah, thou 
puss! 'Tis Philip, 'tis Sir Philip Rochemont! 

IsoBEL. Nay, I said it not ! 

NuESE. A brave, gentle knight who has no fear. 
Why did thee flout him? 

IsoBEL. I liked him not. 

NuESE. Yet he can lift a sword, eh? And all are 
old and feeble here, save — save who, mammet, sweet 
bird? 

IsoBEL. Save Rohan. (Kneels at nurse^s side.) 

NuESE. Oh! eh! Hee, hee! Rohan, the churl! 
He who hath no tongue — my side aches! Thou 'It 
be sly and say Rohan, to keep thy tongue from Philip 
— and to thy old nurse! Pretty bird! Pretty bird! 



Rohan The Silent 165 

IsoBEL. Save Kohan ! And if thou wilt say Philip 
once again, I'll cry the name down. I'd rather 
twenty times say Eohan than once Philip. (Rises.) 

Nurse. Sit thee down. 

IsoBEL. Thou 'It not chide? (Seats herself beside 
nurse.) 

Nurse. Ay, I'll chide! Sir Philip hath a great 
castle and six hundred archers. He will be master here. 

Isobel. (Rises to feet.) Nurse! Speak ye 
treason! Sir Kobert Fulford's master here. 

Nurse. Ay, but Sir Eobert waxeth old and in 
such time another master comes, Sir Philip, our 
lord's cousin. 

Isobel. Rohan is Lord Fulford's son; in such 
time comes Rohan. 

Nurse. Ay, so he should were he not a fool, so 
he should but by an oath. 

Isobel. An oath? What oath? 

Nurse. Sir Robert made an oath that, fifteen 
years gone by he would give up the ruling of the 
place. This is the day, and 

Isobel. And Rohan's master! 

Nurse. Put thy teeth down against thy tongue 
and hold them so till that I give thee leave to speak. 
Rohan was a dolt. My lord's retainers urged that 
this same Philip should be taken by my lord for son 
and to be heir. 

Isobel. Mv lord would not ! 



1 66 Rohan The Silent 

Nurse. Thy tongue! My lord would not the^i^ 
but swore that if fifteen years should pass, and 
Rohan's curse of dumbness be not lifted, he should 
be set aside. 

IsoBEL. And then! 

Nurse. And then the place should go to next of 
kin ; and that is Philip. 

IsoBEL. When shall this be? 

Nurse. To-day ! Shall we all die waiting for the 
fool to speak? {Rises and crosses to centre.) A 
dame brat ! A whimperer that clung at his mam's 
kirtle and never smiled when that she smiled not 
first ; and had more mouth for kisses from her than 
for food ; a dame brat ! 

IsoBEL. Oh, nurse! Loved he his mother so, 
and hath not spoken since the day she died? 

Nurse. Hath not! When his mother's soul went 
out the boy's voice went out after ! He's water in 
him; not his father's blood. No, nor his mother's 
neither — a rare dame! Killed, poor lady. — Ay, we 
had fighting in those days. — God rest her! My lady 
needs must see the arrows hurtle, she comes out — 
there! {Pointmg to toioer.) A goodly spirit ! And 
steps her in the breach to see the fight go on — an 
arrow — ay! — she fell — there where Eohan stood in 
the court, at his feet, down dropped she stark. 

IsoBEL. Oh, nurse, nurse! And Rohan hath 
never spoken since. 



Rohan The Silent 167 

Nurse. A proper comfort to our good lord, he! 
Struck daft and tongueless! Then my lord took the 
oath, that fifteen years gone hy, and no change come, 
Rohan should be set aside and 

IsoBEL. But, nurse! Change hath come ! Rohan 
is great and strong, and 

Nurse. Strong like a dumb, dull ox, but can he 
lift a sword — knows he to fight? 

IsoBEL. Ay, nurse, ay! 

Nurse. Where hath he learnt? The meanest 
varlet in the place holds himself too high to wrestle 
with dolt Rohan. Hath he learnt in the woods, 
mayhap? 

Isobel. In the woods, mayhap. 

Nurse. I've a crick in my side with laughing. 
And he fights so well, 'twere well he came to-day to 
fight Sir Philip out. 

Isobel. Nurse! Comes Sir Philip? 

Nurse. Ay! To keep our good lord to his oath: 
to claim his own. 

Isobel. Oh, where is Rohan? 

Nurse. Ay, where? 

Isobel. Nurse, mind thee that song, that song 
the gleeman sang so long ago, the old gleeman who 
loved Rohan while Rohan was a child like any 
other? 

Nurse. A daft man ! 

Isobel. It saith, 



i68 Rohan The Silent 

*'When scath is near and hope is flown, 
The Fulford's voice shall claim its own!" 
If 'twere a prophecy ! 

NuKSE. If 'twere! If 'twere! I've not patience 
with thee! 'Tis my prophecy that thou wed with 
Philip, and Philip rule us here! (Crosses to castle 
steps.) 

IsoBEL. Nay, nurse ! They will not give me up ! 
Oh, shall we not fight? 

Nurse. Fight ! Thou and I? Thou flouted him 
and now he's like to pull the walls about our ears to 
teach thee better manners ! 

IsoBEL. Why should he hurt the walls? If the 
oath's true and he's the next of kin, he can come in 
in peace — while for my own poor part, I can betake 
myself to some other living, and 

Nurse. Belike he hath made that guess, and so 
he comes with sword to take the place while thou art 
safe within ! 

IsoBEL. Eohan would not see me held against my 
will! 

Nurse. Eohan! Rohan! Thou hast sun-motes 
in thy head ! Get thee within ! {Pushes her toward 
the steps.) Nay, do first thy task! {Exit nurse. 
Isodel comes lack to the wheel and there stands mus- 
ing.) 

IsoBEL. {Alone.) And when the mother's soul 
went forth, the boy's voice went forth after! He 



Rohan The Silent 169 

hath no need to speak. His great eyes are so soft 
and full of speech, and he is so strong — so strong! 
lie hath swung me down the rocks full many times, 
and all day in the woods he hews at trees and plays at 
swords, and, ah ! — my heart aches, — my heart aches ! 
(Sits at wheel, croons softly the song) — 

"When scath is near and hope is flown, 
The Fulford's voice shall claim his own." 

(Enter Rohan icp L. He is stoop-shoul- 
dered and sullen-loohing , walTcs heavily and 
slouching. He hears in his arms a mass of 
flowers and trailing vines. He pauses arid 
notes the luords of the song, then com,es down 
lehind and to the L. of Isobel, and drops the 
flowers at her feet.) 

IsoBEL. (Looking up.) Eohan! 

Rohan. (By gesture.) Lady! 

IsoBEL. For me? All for me? 

Eohan. (By gesture.) For you! 

IsoBEL. Ah, Rohan! Rohan! 

Rohan. (By gesture.^) Thou art pleased? 
There are more in the woods, I'll bring more. I'll 
bring them all. (Starts up stage.) 

* Though the phrase "by gesture" is not hereafter given 
as direction, it is understood that Rohan expresses himself 
by gesture alone. 



170 Rohan The Silent 

ISOBEL. Nay, these are full plenteous store. 

EoHAN. I can do nothmg, then. {Turns to go.) 

IsoBEL. Nay! Rohan, I — I must have help here. 
(Rohan flings liimself at her feet.) Thou shalt 
pass the flowers and I'll weave — nay, not that one, 
the stem is sundered. {Drops ity Rohan ha7ids 
another with his left hand, reaching for the dropped 
flower with his right, puts it in his bosom.) Eohan, 
thou hast heen long away. Methinks thou shouldst 
not leave thy castle so. 

RoHAK. My castle ! 

IsoBEL. Ay! Thy castle. Thou art come to 
masterhood this day. 

RoHAK. Nay, I cannot speak. To-day I am set 
aside. I came but for this, that you — you might 
crave flowers — for no other cause. I'm better in the 
woods away; here I am dolt, fool, shuttle-thrower, 
here all deride me ; there I may lift my head. I — I 
will go again. {Starts to rise.) 

IsoBEL. But, cousin! Sir Philip comes. {Rises.) 

Rohan. {Starting.) To take what should be 
mine! Ah! {Covers his face ivith his hands.) 

IsoBEL. And you — you weep ! 

Rohan. What else — what else — what am I? 

IsoBEL. Had I thy strength I'd not weep. 

Rohan. No? What wouldst do? 

IsoBEL. I'd be brave, I'd be like Sir Philip, a 
proper right good knight who has no fear. 



Rohan The Silent 171 

EoHAK. Lady, I have no fear. I may not be as 
others. 

IsoBEL. Nay, I'd be like him. He has a — great 



castle, and 

EoHAi^. Lady ! 

IsoBEL. Nay, I meant not to hurt thee. Lift up 
thy head, Eohan, — be not sullen, be not churlish. 
Nay, I believe thou canst speak. Thou canst hear 
me? 

KoHAK. Ay, Gods ! I hear ! 

IsoBEL. Then speak! Though 'twere but an old 
song ! Mark it ! 

"When scath is near and hope is flown. 
The Fulford's voice shall save his own." 
Now, try — try. {Lays her hand on his ivrist. He 
shivers, looks at her hand, then tip at her.) Come, 
now, Eohan ! Cousin, take the word from my lips ! 
(Rohan reaches up hungrily.) Nay, Eohan! Shame 
upon you ! I will go ! (He turns on the ground, to 
follow her dress, as she passes him.) 

IsoBEL. {At top of the steps.) Thou 'rt shamed, 
Eohan? 

Eohan. Ay ! So thou wilt return? 

IsoBEL. (Pausing on the steps.) I have more 
chiding for thee. 

Eohan. I would be chidden, lady. 

IsoBEL. {Comes down the steps sloiuly and seats 
herself slowly.) Sir Philip would not have served me 



172 Rohan The Silent 

so. Eohan, you do not pass the flowers. (She puts 
Iter foot up on the sto7ie steps, the better to hold the 
floivers; Rohan hands them someiohat hlindly, for 
watching of the foot; noting which Isohel tahes it 
dow7i. Rohan plans that he may lay his hand 
against the place it rested.) Your father is in coun- 
cil with his men ; Sir Philip's herald came at sunrise, 
demanding — I know not what ! Or else Sir Philip 
will — I know not what ! And all the whiles we are 
thus endangered, thou art footing through the woods 
and care not if Sir Philip comes or no. 

EoHAK. Lady! 

IsoBEL. Nay, speak not ! I have no patience for 
you! {Rohan tur^is aioay his face doiv7i toivard the 
stone steps.) And now thou wilt sulk — I wist not 
what to do! I trow, if thou dwell on form, sooth, so 
will I. (Begi7is to spi7i. Roha7i touches her robe and 
offers her a flower.) Nay, I have done; all's said. 
{Rohan goes dejectedly.) Nay, depart not so! 
Though all is said, go not so, Eohan. I — I will 
remember more. {Roha7i coynes bach.) Nay, at my 
feet right meekly — see, I have thee chained ! {Puts 
ga7'la7id over his head.) Now swear me fealty; the 
oath thou wouldst swear, were thou liegeman and I 
queen, thus: "I, Eohan, do pledge myself your 
liegeman for life and for limb and for earthly wor- 
ship; and faith and truth will I give unto you, to live 
and die before all manner of folk; so help me God!" 



Rohan The Silent 



-^73 



EoHAK. Out of my heart I ''I, Rohan, do pledge 
myself your liegeman for life and for limb and for 
earthly worshijj ; and faith and truth will I give unto 
you, to live and die before all manner of folk ; so help 
me God!" 

ISOBEL. Dear cousin, thou art so fierce in thy 
jesting I'm all but frighted. 

EoHAN. I will be gentle. 

IsoBEL. Alack ! Thy father with his brow still 
dark! 

{Rolia7i starts down X, Isohel stands hy her 
wheel leloio and to left of stej^s. Enter Sir 
Rodert Fulford^ Beowulf^ Gohyn^ Godwin, 
John and others.) 

Sir Robt. {Centre.) The honor of me and of ye 
all I would gladly save — had I a son or were I less 
enfeebled and sore weary with many years, we might 
do other how. 

Godwin. {Right,) Let us go out and give our 
arms some trial. 

John. {Left^ front.) Ay, ay! 

Sir Robt. Shall we go out to fall like corn in 
harvest? 

Godwin. We might prove the better men 

John. Ay ! The better men ! 

Gobyn. {Right, heside John. To John.) Peace! 

Sir Robt. And if it happen that in war's work 



174 Rohan The Silent 

ye are the better men, what will it profit if ye be left 
upon the slaughter -place, mangled with wounds? 
Nay, I am weary and war -sad and our force is few. 
I have bid Sir Philip here for parley. For saving of 
my oath, this day must pass ere my sad son be set 
aside. In proof of faith we'll give him up the girl. 
The morrow he may enter here in peace and with no 
test of arms. This is our wisdom. Ah, 'tis long 
since I was Kobert Fulford ! 

Godwin. Still say I, let us fight ! 

John". Ay, let us fight ! 

Sir Eobt. Had I a son! Had I a son! 

Rohan. {The garland still alout Mm comes for- 
ward^ L. C.) Good my father, a son thou hast! 

Sir Eobt. Now look down, God, and laugh upon 
my fortunes ! Here stands out my son — look down 
upon him and laugh ! 

Godwin. Harnessed bravely for war ! Out ! Out ! 

Beowulf. {Left.) Shuttle-thrower! Fit to 
sport with wenches ! 

Sir Robt. Here stands he who should be prop 
and stay — here stands — Ah ! I choke ! 

Godwin. He is no remedy. Let us fight and 
abide fortune. 

John. Ay! And every man to show his prowess ! 

GoBYN. Boy! {To John.) 

Sir Robt. Peace ! We have spoken. Where is 
the girl? Go one for the maid Isobel. 



Rohan The Silent 175 

IsoBEL. {Coming foi'iuard.) I — I sat here spin- 
ning, good my lord, and 

SiE RoBT. {Gravely and kindly.) Thou hast 
heard, then; what say you, fair niece? Wilt be our 
hostage? In part we owe this coil to thee. Hadst 
thou looked with favor on Sir Philip's wooing we had 
not now been set to council. Wilt be our hostage? 
Or shall we mend thy quarrel with our good blood? 

IsoBEL. {Faintly.) Bounden am I to be content 
at what is thy good pleasure, my lord. 

Sir Eobt. Right maidenly. 

RoHAK. {Flinging off the garland.) Father! 
Stay! 

Sir Robt. I wonder at thy insolence who by 
God's curse and mine hast no place here. 

GoDWiK. Good my lord, let us not stoop to 
maiden service. Let there be wage of arms, one of 
us against a one of Philip's. Heaven will decide the 
right by the issue; and by the issue we'll abide. 

John. Ay! And let me fight it! 

GoDWii^. To thy mother, boy! Let my arm 
make the test. If that my fellows and thy word will 
have it so. 

GoBYN. Ay, good ! A wage of arms ! 

Beowulf. And Godwin's arm to make it! 

JoHK. {And others.) Ay! Ay! A wage of 
arms, and Godwin's arm to make it ! 

GoDWii^r. 'Tis said. 



176 Rohan The Silent 

KoHAK. Nay, my father ! All — let me fight? 
^Godwin. Ha! He asks to fight ! 
{SpeaMng J Beowulf. The shuttle-thrower fight ! 
together.) | Johi^". The dumb our champion! 

Omnes. {Laugh.) 
EoHAN". I am like iron. None here can cope 
me. Heaven will decide the right. 

Godwin". Gods! None cope thee? Thou art 
my pastime ! Shall I be holden and stayed? 

(Rushes itpon Rohan. They ivrestle. As 
they grip and strain^ the men folloiu them 
about luith IroTcen cries and exclamations. 
Rohan throius Godwin. All shout.) 

GoBYi^. Where learned the fool such play? 

IsoBEL. Oh, good uncle, let him have trial! 
Good uncle, abate thy rigor against thy son ! What 
hath not Eohan that befits a man? He speaks not? 
What need hath a FuKord of words, when that he is 
a Fulford and wears a sword? Have the hills ^speech? 
Yet there is no strength may stir them ! Speaks the 
great gold sun that makes the whole earth live? 
Hath the lightning need of words when that it strikes 
and kills? So, good my lord, is Rohan! 

RoHAK. I, saving thee, should be lord here ; by 
right of place mine 'It is to fight this wage, by right 
of strength, too, as I have shown but now before ye 
all, here with your best arm, Godwin. 



Rohan The Silent 



177 



Godwin". {Leaning heavily against table E.) 
Ay, he hath wrenched me. I will call him young 
lord. 

EoHAK. For that I cannot speak ye set me by. 
I crave my curse he not remembered now ! By the 
cause whereby it fell upon me, by the shaft that 
struck my mother's brave heart through, by the piti- 
ful sad sight of her here at my feet, I crave you, I cry 
you, I demand you, remember not my curse, but let 
my right speak, let my heart speak, let my sword 
speak, let me fight ! 

IsoBEL. Oh, good uncle, lacks he words who can 
plead so? 

JoHK and GoDWiiq". Ay, ay! 

Beowulf and Gobyn. Well said! 

Sir Eobt. What say ye, men? {Horn sounds 
tuitliout the wall.) Sir Philip is at hand. 
-^ Beowulf. We shall more nearly save our honor 
by a wage. 

GoBTK. And Eohan here hath given good proof 
of strength. 

Godwin". Ay, strength hath he, and the way to 
put it forth. 

JoHK and Others. Ay, let the wage be done by 
Rohan ! 
™ Beowulf. Rohan say I ! 

Sir Robt. {To Rohan.) Put thee in war dress! 
{Exit Rohan into castle. To John and Gobyn.) 



178 Rohan The Silent 

The gates ! (Beoimdf and Sir Robert confer L. C. 
John and Gohjn go to the gates.) 

Godwin. {To Beoiuiilf ivhile the gates are being 
sivung.) I tell thee, he wrenched me with my own 
turn o'er the shoulder, — the same as thou taught me. 

Beowulf. 'Twas I taught the lad sword-play ere 
he turned dolt. What's in it all, think you? 

{Beoiuulf and Godium go to either side of 
Sir Robert up L. Gobyn and John stand 
either side of the gate up C. Nurse and Iso- 
bel remain to L of steps. Beoioulf and Sir 
Robert L. C. Enter Philip through the gates 
C ivith five men and an attendant priest^ 
Godfrey.) 

Sir Phil. {Coming to R. C.) I have come for 
brief parley, good Lord Fulford. I have no need of 
consult, having many good stout men. By mes- 
senger this sun-up I have made known to you my 
will. The castle yielded straight with all therein. 
{Isobel shrinlcs bach.) Or thy fair niece Isobel as 
hostage of thy faith, to yield at later pleasure. Fail- 
ing both these, good my Lord Fulford, I have a right 
rare gathering of yeomen and brisk archers to show 
to thee, and brave catapults to knock for entrance. 
But that I reverence thy years and thy good service 
to our lord the king, I had not come. What further 
parley would you? Is it thy will to settle now when 



Rohan The Silent 179 

I may enter here? That were fit wisdom, good my 
lord ; and I have brought an escort for my fair hos- 
tage. Speak, my lord. 

Sir Kobt. Sir Philip Eochemont, we do desire 
the controversy be decided by a wage of arms. Your 
stoutest soldier and our own. One man to one man, 
body to body. 

Sir Phil. Ha! My lord, for such lad's play why 
have I brought my yeomen many leagues? 

Sir Robt. The king would ill regard thy violence 
against me, good Sir Philip. 

Godfrey. (Aside to Philip.) The old wolf hath 
blood still. Be thou prudent, Philip. The king's 
in no good humor towards thee. 

Sir Phil. {To Godfrey.) Peace! {Pauses 
sullenly.) Thy terms? 

Sir Eobt. In fair fight, one man to one man, 
body to body. If that ours prove the stronger, Sir 
Philip shall depart with courteous safe conduct 
beyond our walls, and pledged to trouble us no more. 
If that we shall fail, we shall by need constrained 
submit us to Sir Philip, ourselves, our walls and all 
therein, swearing our fealty and pledging our serv- 
ice; thenceforth for always. 

Godfrey. {Aside to Philip.) Be advised, 
'twere better so. Thy arm is good. Be mindful of 
the king. Better 'twere done so. Thou wilt have 
the maid as safe 



i8o Rohan The Silent 

Philip. (Aside to Godfrey.) Ay, I'll have the 
maid. Yet 'twere a risk. These few we have are 
not mate for e'en their poor forces. 

Godfrey. 'Twill take but a small space to whis- 
tle in our yeomen and our archers, Philip. Be 
advised. (Pause^ during which Philip takes note of 
the force prese?it, IsobeVs position, and the gates, 
then aloud' to Sir Rohert.) 

Philip. Were honor drowsing now, 'twere a 
brave trap, good my lord, to stand single with closed 
gates. 

Sir Eobt. (Motions to Gohyn and John to go to 
gates and stvi?ig them open.) Thou hast my surety 
and thou hast open gates, my lord ; and thou wilt let 
the wage be fought without the walls. 

Philip. Nay, here ! Let me confer. 

(Sir RoherVs men gather round Sir Rohert. 
Philip confers luith Godfrey.) 

Philip. Mark me, I'll trust no chance for the 
maid. I fight the wage myself. Watch thou the 
shift of arms. If that I am mastered, two of our 
men shall make the maid secure; another two of 
them may hold the gates ; one more is good against 
the other force. Come thou to my staying, thou and 
thy dagger! We'll hold them so, the while we 
whistle in our forces. 

Godfrey. Thy blood shows. 'Twas always so 
that Norman conquered Saxon, Philip. 



Rohan The Silent i8i 

Philip. Peace ! Give thou our men instructing, 
and note well the fighting. 

GoDFEEY. Ay, Philip. 

Philip. {To Sir Robert.) I do admit thy parley, 
good Sir Rohert. Myself will meet the wage. 

SiK RoBT. Good. 

Philip. Thy Champion? 

{Enter Rohan from the castle,) 

RoHAK. {By gesture.) Here! 
Philip. {Laughing insole7itly .) Sure Lord Ful- 
ford does not offer insult to a knight and kinsman! 
Thy terms state man to man, not man to beast. War 
dress hides not thy dolt son Rohan. 

Godfrey. Wisely, Philip, wisely. The wage is 
easier thine. 

Sir Robt. The wage is not of words. Sir Philip, 
but of sword-stroke. 

Philip. {To Godfreij.) So! {To Sir Robert.) 
Good! 

{Godfrey tightens the strapping of Sir 

Philip^ s armor. Sir Rohert mounts steps L, 

giving inspection to Rohan^s equipment as he 

passes.) 

GoDWiK. {To Beowulf during this husi^iess.) 

I like it not. Didst note the champing of his jaw? 

IsoBEL. {Doivn L to nurse.) Nurse! Sir 
Philip's eye turns craftily. My heart chills. 



i82 Rohan The Silent 

Godwin". {Continuing his talk ivith Beowulf.) 
Gates open ! I like it not ! 

IsoBEL. Ah, Eohan! This word, — In the dark 
hour — Eohan, I love thee ! 

EoHAK. {Not touching her.) And God will, I 
may make answer, lady! 

Philip. {Coming for ivard.) My lord. 

SiE EoBT. Stand forth. 

{They take place., Rohan L. C, Philip E. 
C. Sir Robert on steps to castle L. Isohel 
and nurse doivn R. hy the castle. Goiy^i and 
Godtoin up C. Beoivulf alove steps to the L. 
hy Sir Rolert. John R. near gates. Sir 
Philip'' s men doivn L. Godfrey with them.) 

Sir Eobt. In fair fight, body to body, man to 
man, Heaven to decide the right by the issne. 

Philip. So betide me as these terms I faith- 
fully observe me, as I am a man, a Christian and a 
loyal knight. 

EoHAK. So help me God, all these terms I faith- 
fully observe, as I am a man, a Christian, and {look- 
ing at Isohel) a loyal knight. 

{They prepare.) 
Sir Eobt. Nestroque ! 

{Theyfight.) 
IsoBEL. Now dear Heaven save my heart ! 
{Theyfight.) 



Rohan The Silent 183 

Godwin". Eare! Kare! Note his sword-play I 

{They fight) 
JoHN^. Oh, were I there ! 

{Theyfight) 
IsoBEL. Oh, nurse, nurse ! 
' Beowulf. There's our lord's blood! 

{Theyfight.) 

Godwin". God ! Here's rare play. 
GoDFKEY. {Who moves about, luatching closely.) 
He'll do it fairly! 

{Philip begins to get the letter hand. ) 

GoBYN". The fool goes under ! 

Sir Eobt. Mine eyes mist. Here his mother 
fell! 

Godwin". We're undone! 

IsoBEL. God! Kohan! I cannot look! 
{Hides her face.) 

{Rohan begins to get the better hand.) 

Sir RoBT.'s Men". Ah! Ah! 
Godfrey. {Watching closely.) Not yet! Not 
yet! 

{They fight furiously, Rohan gairiing.) 

Godwin". Bravely ! Bravely ! 

Godfrey. He's spent ! At last ! If ever — now ! 



184 Rohan The Silent 

(Gives signal to Philip'' s men, to pass swiftly 
around the hacJc lehind Beowulf, and over the 
platform, hehind Sir Robert; thus to Isolel. 
Only Rohan sees them. He tries to hold Sir 
Philip with one hand, that he may signal for 
I soi eV s protection with the other.) 

GoBYK. He loses ! 

JoHi^. He's hurt! 

Godfrey. He's mad! 

EoHAK. {Speaks hoarsely in his throat.) Ah! 
Ah! {Loudly and hoarse.) A treason! A treason! 

Godwin. God in heaven! The lady! {Rushes 
down from up C. in front of steps to Isolel down R.) 
'- Beowulf. The gates ! 

GoBYif . Dogs ! 

JoHi^. Treason! Treason! Treason! 

{Godioin grasps one of the 7nen at Isolel 
alout the waist. The other man Godwin holds 
down by lack of neck. Golyn drags shut the 
gates single handed, and with John, protects 
them. Beoivulf holds the fourth man of 
Philip. Godfrey goes to Philip^ s staijing, 
and Rohan forces Philip doimi. Godfrey 
lifting dagger is stayed and disarmed ly Sir 
Rolert.) 

Rohan. {Hoarsely hut loud.) Right is mine! 

Philip. I yield me. {Philijj^s men drop arms.) 



Rohan The Silent 185 

EoHAN. (Throwing up his hands.) Mother in 
Heaven! I speak! I have found tongue! Ah! 
Ah! Ah! God hear me! God hear me! 
f Godwin. He speaks ! 
(Speaking \ Johk. He hath found tongue! 
together.) \ Godfrey. A miracle! 

[ Omkes. He speaks! A miracle! (etc.) 
Rohan. (Turns R. toward Isohel, reaches out Ids 
arms.) I make answer, lady! I claim my own! 
IsoBEL. Thine, Eohan! (Comes to Mm.) 

(Sir Rohert L. C. RoUa7i and Isohel C. 
Nurse and Godwin down R. Beowulf and 
Gohyn up C. John and others up L. Philip'' s 
men a7id Godfrey down L. Philip disarmed 
on the gromid to the right, and in front of 
Rohan.) 

(Curtain.) 



AT THE BARRICADE 



AN EPISODE OF THE 
COMMUNE OF '7 1 



At the Barricade 



PERSONS REPRESENTED. 

Marquis de Malreva]S"che. Xa-v^./. 

Laurekt, Lieutenant of Chausseiirs. 

Kadoc, Sergeant. 

Jacques Sage, Corporal. 

Dr. Rodellec. 

Yvonne of Guimperle, called Queen of the Pe- 

trolenses. 
Claire, Contesse de St. Lunaire. 
NicoLLETTE, her maid. 
Thtmette. j 

Marton. > Petroleuses. 
Jeanne. ) 

Before the curtain rises the orchestra 2)lays a 
series of French airs: ''^Sur le Po7it cV Avignon ;"*"* 
^'■U Amour fait le monde a le ronde; ' ' ' 'Partant pour 
la Syrie;'''' at last strilcing into the Marsellaise^ iMch 
is repeated with rapidly increasing tempo and em- 
189 



190 



At the Barricade 



pJiasis. Beliind the curtain a tocsin is heard; shouts; 
the noises of a siviftly rising emeute; a drum-roll; 
cries; shots; at first scattering, then a fusillade; the 
curtain rises on the last moment of a fight at a barri- 
cade in the Quartier Latin, in 1871. At the left of 
stage, half-way lack, set at an angle, is a '^barri- 
cade,'''' roughly throiun iqj, of jpav'mg stones, a cart, 
Irohen furniture dragged from houses, gates, and the 
like. A man lies dead, fallen across it face forioard. 
Another lies dead in foreground. There are wounded 
men and ivomen, some regular soldiers, some revolu- 
tionaires, lying or sitting about the stage. At the 
right of stage, tiuo-thirds back, there is a high, blank 
brick ivall, as to a courtyard. Dr. Rodellec is exam- 
ining the dead and ivounded: by his gestured order, 
the wounded are lead and the dead carried atvay. At 
the right of the stage, at the back, a group of Petro- 
leuses, Thymette, Jeanne, Marton, are being bound, 
their arms behind them, by tiuo soldiers, under di- 
rection of Jacques Sage; Laurent is luatchijig them. 
He is dishevelled and powder -stained; there is a tear 
in his uniform just above the heart. The women are 
bloodstained, with disordered dress and hair. After 
a few moments of such animated pantomime as that 
above indicated. Doctor Rodellec crosses to Laurent, 
and as he speaks, they come dozv7i, centre, together. 
Rodellec is adjustiiig his cuffs, putting back instru- 
me7its in case, etc. 



At the Barricade 191 

Dr. Rodellec. Congratulations, Monsieur the 
Lieutenant : yive le h'gue ! I could not have led the 
fight better myself! Can a non-combatant say 
more! 

Laurei^^t. There was no leadership, Doctor! 
The word came to us — They have raised a barricade ! 
Level it ! — I but passed the word to my men, here, — 
faith, it was done ! 

EoDELLEC. And well done ! Behind such shelters 
as that revolutions grow, full-statured in an hour. 
They are very mushrooms of hell, springing up no 
one knows how, and under them, the creatures 
spawned by 

Maetok. Eemember your gallantry. Monsieur 
the Doctor ! Some of the spawn chance to be of your 
audience ! 

EoDELLEC. Be quiet, you fool! Or you'll lose 
more of that hot blood of yours than you can well 
spare! I warned you I wouldn't answer for that 
shoulder's bandage. It's an awkward slash, that! 

Thtmette. And why not lose hot blood as well 
through a shoulder-cut as through a bullet-path to 
the heart? It's a question of an hour, — no more! 
and then, — backs against the wall! — present! — fire! 

Jeakne. ( With a cry of terror.) Marton, no ! 
Monsieur the Lieutenant, no! Will it be like that 
with us? Is it true? 

Laurent. God's mercy, child that you are! why 



192 At the Barricade 

did you not ask yourself that question before you 
rushed to that barricade? 

Jacques Sage. And before you said good-morn- 
ing in lead to me across it? Day of my life! Look 
at the mark her bullet left ! 

Jeanke. Monsieur the Lieutenant, what could I 
do? I followed Marton, — that is all! I did not 
know why ! I did not know where ! — Monsieur the 
Lieutenant, Marton is my comrade ! She has shared 
her one crust with me, — she has wrapped me in her 
one blanket when nights were cold! Monsieur the 
Lieutenant, what could I do when some one had 
thrust a pistol in my hand, and I saw that man's 
bayonet at Marten's breast? 

{A drum-roll is heard without.) 

Laurekt. (Crosses R. to look down street.) De 
Guy on, perhaps? My colonel? God send it! It is 
he settles these women's fate, not I. Shoot a woman 
in cold blood? Faugh! It's butcher's work; not a 
man's! 

RoDELLEC. It's butchery to France not to shoot 
them! They're the devil's right hand. Lieutenant! 
Why, take that woman, Yvonne, now, the Petro- 
leuse leader, the most damnable, — that — which is 
Yvonne? 

Thtmette. More fitly ask, Monsieur, where is 
Yvonne ! 



At the Barricade 193 

RoDELLEC. You're not Yvonne of Guimperle? 

Thymette. {Laughs.) Am I Yvonne? Eh, 
Mar ton? 

Marton^. You Yvonne? No more than a spark 
of fire is hell ! 

Laurent. Sage! Has one of your prisoners 
escaped, then? 

RoDELLEC. Yvonne escaped! Then youVo 
picked the cherries and spared the tree ! 

Sage. There were no other prisoners, Monsieur! 
The woman who led the fight, — a she devil ! — was 
gone when the fight ended. 

{The Petroleuses laugh.) 

Laurent. Diable! Does any man here know 
her? 

Thymette. One of your men knows her. Mon- 
sieur ! He was carried from there just now with her 
knife through his heart. 

Laurent. She's had no time for escape. Our 
men are everywhere. The woman is in hiding some- 
where near. I'll set Kadoc on the search, and Fran- 
9ois. Guard these women well, Sage. {Sage salutes.) 
Curse such bloodhound's work. Doctor! {Exit.) 

RoDELLEC. Good faith! But that hunt will be 
worth the following ! There'll be sport at the finish ! 

{Exit^ foUoiDing Laurent.) 



194 At the Barricade 

Jeanne. Marton? 

Makton. Well, child? 

Jeanne. What do you think it will be like, 
Marton, — the minute after? 

Marton. After — what? 

Jeanne. After we have stood — against the wall? 

Thymette. Nothing so very new, pardieu ! We 
shall find ourselves a bit colder than the nights last 
winter — voila tout! 

Marton. Death will be the first lover who ever 
touched you to find you cold ! 

{Nicollette enters hastily.) 

NicoLLETTE. {To Sage.) Monsieur! Is it here 
the Hotel St. Lunaire lies? Ah, Monsieur, I am so 
terrified. All this noise — blood — Monsieur, a man 
fell dead at my feet in the street yonder ! 

Thymette. Honor us with your presence but a 
half-hour. Mademoiselle, and you shall see three 
women fall ''dead at your feet!" {Moching her 
accent and gesture.) 

ISTicoLLETTE. Monsieur, who are these women? 
Why are they wounded — and bound? One of them 
is a girl — like me! Ah! {With a cry.) They are 
women like those who fought in the street yonder — 
they are petroleuses ! Monsieur, you will not shoot 
them? They are women ! 

Sage. When a woman puts herself in a bullet's 



At the Barricade 195 

way, petite, — diantre! She must not grumble at 
swallowing the bullet! As, for instance, when she 
puts herself in the way of a kiss, she must not 
grumble 

{He catches her hy the ivaist. She struggles.) 

NicoLLETTE. Let me go ! Let me go ! No man 
but Kadoc shall touch my lips. I promised 
Kadoc Help! Help, I say! 

{Kadoc enters.) 

9^ Kadoc. Who said Kadoc? Now by the entrails 

of the devil {Catches Sage hy the collar and 

whirls him from Nicollette.) To-day's been a dream 
from the start, and here's more dreaming! You're 
not real? You're never, Nicollette? ) Seizes loth 
her hands.) 

{Sage goes up stage nibbing his shoiilders.) 

Thymette. a capital entr'acte of comedy, on my 
soul! Life is entertaining to the fall of the curtain! 

Jeanne. He has eyes like my Pierre, that soldier, 
and big kind hands like my Pierre ! And his hands 
will never touch me again! Ah, my Pierre! my 
Pierre ! 

Nicollette. Kadoc! It is a di^eam, as you say! 
How came you here? 

Kadoc. That's for me to ask you, little one! 
My place is here — Monsieur Laurent, my Lieutenant, 



196 At the Barricade 

is here — man's work is here; but a woman? How 
came you here, little sweetheart? 

NicoLLETTE. Kadoc, we are on our way to Eng- 
land, Monsieur the Marquis, Mademoiselle my mis- 
tress, and I. Monsieur the Marquis found there were 
papers, jewels, left in his Hotel St. Lunaire, yonder; 
he would not leave France without them. Paris 
was quiet at last, they told us down in Brittany — 
quiet and safe. We were to go to England by way 
of Paris. Our carriage was in the next street — figure 
to yourself! so near! — when on a sudden 

Kadoc. The emeute! Sapristi! Yes! It swept 
on us in a moment, as the storm sweeps up the old 
St. Malo shore ! 

NicoLLETTE. Our horscs were shot — our carriage 
overset — Mademoiselle whispered, "You know our 
town house, child; reach it if you can — the servants 
will open to you." 

Kadoc. Servants? Open! The Hotel St. 
Lunaire is a smoked-out rooks' nest! But its cellar's 
good hiding for you, little one, till we are sure this 
tempest is spent. Come ! 

NicoLLETTE. Ah, in the dark one can be safe! 

Kadoc. In the dark one can steal, — peste! Why 
should one wait, then, for the dark? It's all a 
dream ! 

{Clasjjs and hisses her.) 

Marton. And that's all in it worth dreaming! 



At the Barricade 197 

(Enter Laurent.) 
Laurent. Kadoc ! 

{Kadoc springs erect and to the salute. 
Nicollette so hangs her head that Laurent does 
not see her face.) 

Laueent. (^5 a drum-roll is heard without.) 
Kadoc! Playing at love to that music! At this 
hour ! And you a Breton soldier ! 
— Kadoc. Monsieur, — I 

(Claire enters.) 

Laurekt. Girl, find some safer place, and that 
quickly! No woman who values life or honor is 
found in Paris streets to-day ! 

Claire. I count that less than courteously said, 
Monsieur the Lieutenant ! 

Laurent. Claire! Contesse! God! What 
does an angel in hell? 

Claire. Where else were an angel so needed, 
Monsieur, or where should she he so welcome? 

Laurent. I — I thought you safe in England, 
and your journey ended ! 

Claire. My faith! I, too, thought my journey 
ended hut now, Monsieur, when a Communist hullet 
played ungallant harber and robbed me of a curl! 
A half -inch nearer, and 



198 At the Barricade 

Laurent. {Extending his hand as though to 
touch her curls, then suddenly icithdraiving it.) 
Claire! (He speaks in a stifled voice, and turns 
away to fight doivn his emotiooi.) 

Thymette. Will they rob ua of our last distinc- 
tion, these aristocrats? Diable! That was a prettier 
grimace than ever / made at Death ! 

Claire. Nay, Monsieur, why shrink at the men- 
tion of Death's shears, when the shears themselves 
have touched you, too, so close? {She indicates a 
tear in his u7iifor7n.) 

Laurent. It was a bayonet thrust. Jacques 
turned it from my heart. But — it was not then 
Death's nearness brought me fear. It is now. 

Claire. Strange, Monsieur, when now is the 
first hour in months that I have known no fear. 

Laurent. You speak riddles, Contesse. It is 
part of this evil dream. 

Claire. Then I will make my riddles plain. 
{To Nicollette.) Go you, child, as the Lieutenant 
bade you. Kadoc will have leave to guard you. 
{Laurent hows.) Find if our hotel stands, and 
bring me word. 

Nicollette. Bien, Contesse. {To Kadoc.) 
See that you guard me well ! 

Kadoc. No fear. {Arm around her.) You 
shall see I know how to hold a prisoner ! 
{Exeunt Nicollette and Kadoc.) 



At the Barricade 199 

Claiee. Monsieur, the fear from which this hour 
delivers me was the fear that I might never find 
again that which you took with you when you left 
our old Breton chateau, one spring morning, a twelve 
month ago. 

Lauren^t. What I took with me, Contesse? 
Nay, I took with me nothing not my own. 

Claire. You are sure of that, Monsieur? 

Laurent. I took with me a secret, Contesse, 
that was mine — all mine — because I had no right to 
share it ! 

Claire. And you took with you also, I think, 
Monsieur, a something that was not yours — the 
something that held your secret, — my heart, 
Monsieur ! 

Laurent. Contesse ! {Moves passionately toward 
her.) 

Claire. Nay, not Contesse, Laurent, — Claire! 
Claire, your old playmate, the child you protected, 
the girl your arm taught to trust man's strength, 
that your soul taught to trust man's goodness! 
Claire, — your childhood's friend, — your manhood's — 

Laurent. My manhood's idol! The love of 
all my life! My dream of heaven! Claire! {He 
falls on one hnee^ hissing her hands. She raises 
him.) 

Claire. Nay, Laurent, listen ! It is not noble- 
woman that speaks to officer of France — it is not 



200 At the Barricade 

maid that speaks to man — it is soul that cries to soul, 
across the barricade of flesh that any moment may- 
tear away ! I have lived in fear, Laurent — the fear 
lest I be unworthy the dignity of a noblewoman — lest 
I shame what my own soul has taught me is the dig- 
nity of a maid, who may not speak love, with the lips 
no love has kissed ! But in this hour such barricades 
must fall. May not the bullet that clipped my curl 
an hour ago fly nearer in the hour to come? May 
not the bayonet that missed your heart but now find 
it, before my heart has had leave to speak? Laurent, 
we stand as spirit to spirit in Death's freedom. Tell 
me you love me ! 

Laukent. I love you! I worship you! Soul 
and flesh, I worship you ! 

Marton. Tudieu ! But it seems these aristocrats 
can also teach us how to love ! 

Laurekt. My Claire! You knew I loved you! 

Claire. I knew; and therefore my love leaped 
its barricade. Your eyes have told me so, my 
Laurent, — oh, many a time! — in the sweet old gar- 
den, in the sweet lost time ! But your lips 

Laurent. My lips dared not, Claire. How 
dared they — I, a poor soldier of fortune — you, a 
noblewoman of France, the petted child of fortune ! 
I, who have not even a name to offer you, my 
Claire — T, who owe the training of a gentleman to 
the charity of the man — your guardian — whose 



At the Barricade 20i 

charity to me hints my shame and his. Claire, I am 
nameless ! 

Claire. Not nameless from this hour, my lover ! 
My name — will yon not make it yours? I am the 
last of my race. No man lives now who may call 
himself a St. Lnnaire. There is no nobler name in 
Brittany — no nobler name in France! Yours is the 
spirit of the men who have borne it — the men behind 
whose sword their king was safe — in whose love was 
the safety of a woman! {The Marquis enters. He 
watches them through his lorgnette.) Laurent! If 
we outlive this hour, my name is yours as now my 
heart is yours, — take it, as you take — my lips! 

Laurent. My queen! My Claire! {Kisses her 
passionately.) 

Thtmette. {A drum-roll without.) Diantre! 
One can after all play at love, it seems, to such 
music ! 

Jeai^tne. Ah, my Pierre ! 

Marquis. {Coming forivard. He is lightly 
applauding .) On my word, as pretty a love-scene as 
I ever assisted at in any theatre. And — jour de ma 
vie ! Did I not deserve applause for entering so pat 
upon my cue? 

Marton^. The first cue you ever took, then, from 
honest lips — lache ! 

Jeanne. You know the man, Marton? 

Marton. Every girl in Brittany with eyes of any 



202 At the Barricade 

sort has had opportunity to know the Marquis Malre- 
vanche ! 

Makquis. Parole d'honneur ! {Takes sjiuff .) It 
has annoyed me — but yes, seriously annoyed me ! — to 
feel that I have missed my cue more than once 
to-day! It bores one to be cast for a part one ia 
unfamiliar with. I have never played a refugee. 
I do not find the role congenial ! 

{From this point there arise, gradually, the 
sounds of a rising emeute; drum-roll, shots, 
shouts, the tocsin, and the Marsellaise; hut 
faint at first, a7id very distant.) 

Laurent Monsieur the Marquis 

Marquis. One moment, my children! One 
moment's patience! I was about to say that it is 
most gratifying to chance on a cue one cannot 
miss, — and my obvious line is — Bless you, my chil- 
dren! 

Claire. I thank you, Monsieur, for the consent 
that to-day makes it unnecessary for me to ask ! 

Marquis. Well and neatly said, my ward! We 
celebrate your birthday but ungallantly, — yet it seems 
to bring you a desired gift after all! Monsieur the 
Lieutenant — may I add, Monsieur my son? — let us 
make it complete, in bringing you also a gift, — my 
name ! 

Claire. Monsieur the Marquis, to-day has twice 



At the Barricade 203 

brought my husband an honorable name, — one name 
won by brave fighting, — one name offered by humble 
love! 

Laurent. Unworthy as I am, she has answered 
you, Monsieur the Marquis. I desire no other name 
than these. 

Marquis. Yet consider. Monsieur my son. But 
for a slight legal formality, regrettably omitted, the 
name had been yours by right of birth. Yet who 
could regret an amiable indiscretion that has had 
such a consequence? It arranges itself so con- 
veniently! The lady for whom the formality was 
observed, neglected, before her lamented e,xit, to fur- 
nish an heir to the Malrevanches ; — another lady had 
already generously anticipated that deficiency — it is 
perfect! The unclaimed name — the nameless son! 
Voila! 

Thymette. Such as he is make revolutions ! 

Claire. I say again, to-day brings Laurent what 
you cannot offer him, — an Jwnorable name, Mon- 
sieur ! 

Jeakke. Such as she is make — France ! 

Laurent. Monsieur the Marquis, you have given 
me the right to ask you the question on which all 
depends — for me. Who is the woman who must bear 
your name before I bear it? Monsieur the Marquis, 
who is my mother? 

Marquis. Dieu des dieux ! There you bring me 



204 At the Barricade 

to an embarrassment. Who was your mother? 
Frankly, Monsieur my son, I do not remember ! 

(There is a cry without. Nicollette enters^ 
struggling in the grasp of FrauQois. She is 
weeping with fear. Yvonne follows; she twists 
Fra7iQois^s hands from Nicollette^ who throws 
herself soiling at Claire^s knees.) 

Nicollette. Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle! They 
broke into my hiding-place, these soldiers! They 
said I was a Petroleuse, Mademoiselle! That I was 
that terrible woman, the Petroleuse they were seek- 
ing. Mademoiselle! That I was to be brought here, 
and shot against the wall ! — that I was 

Yvonne. {Adva7icing.) That she was Yvonne 
of Guimperle — in a word, that she was I! {Claire 
raises Nicollette and tries to calm her.) 

Jeanne AND Thymette. Yvonne! 

Laurent. Yvonne of Guimperle! 

Yvonne. {With a mock courtesy.) At your 
service, Messieurs my executioners ! 

Marquis. Yvonne ! Foi de mon honneur ! And 
she is handsome yet ! 

{KadoCj e?itering, Irings a folded paper to 
Laurent^ toho opening^ reads. Yvonne laughs 
with the women as the soldiers lind her arms.) 

Kadoc. The Colonel's orders, Monsieur the 



At the Barricade 205 

Lieutenant. And immediate! {He indicates hy 
gesture the Petroleuses.) 

Laueent. Make them ready, then. But do — 

nothing — until Mademoiselle the Contesse {He 

indicates Claire^ s departure hy gesture.) 

{The soldiers tighten the binding of the 
luomen^s arms.) 

Maktok. What fool's work brought you here, 
Yvonne? 

Yvonne. A fool's will, if you like, comrades! 
I had safe hiding in the cellar of the Hotel St. 
Lunaire yonder, — your pardon for trespass, Made- 
moiselle the Contesse! This small one {Indicates 
Nicollette.) was brought to the same hiding by her 
big lover. Did she fear me when she found me! 
Diantre, no ! No more than had she been kitten and 
I cat, instead of tiger ! My word ! She fed me bread 
and wine — it was a fete! Then burst in these 
unmannerly clowns — they seized her, crying we have 
her — the hell cat — the queen of the Petroleuses! — 
She — the queen of the Petroleuses ! But they have 
perceptions, these gentlemen! 

{The tvomen laugh.) 

Thymette. She might have convenienced you, 
all the same, by filling your place — there! {Indi- 
cates the wall, against which they are placing Mar- 
ton, sullenly resistifig.) 



2o6 At the Barricade 

YvoKNE. Diable ! No ! That is precisely where 
she could not take my place! Is all my vanity dead? 
Should they say, "So Yvonne of Guimperle dies" of 
the death that small one would die? The death of a 
little scared kitten? No! I've lived my own life, 
I'll die my own death; mille tonnerres! 'Tis 
but to leap one more barricade, with a Perhaps be- 
yond it ! 

Laukent. Let Kadoc take you and ISTicollette 
away, my Claire ! What must come presently is not 
sight for woman's eyes. 

Claire. Nor work for men's hands, Laurent! 
They are women ! 

{Laurent makes a gesture of despairing 
appeal^ indicating his helplessness to disobey 
orders.) 

Marquis. (Crosses, surveying the Petroleuses 
through his lorgnette.) Ma foil It is of course the 
fortune of war, but all the same it is a pity to waste 
such good material ! 

Yvon^ke. (Squarely facing him.) It is a pity 
you did not say that to yourself twenty-three years 
ago. Monsieur the Marquis de Malrevanche! 

Marquis. You do me the honor, then, to 
remember me? 

Yvonne. My excellent memory saved your life a 
half hour ago, Monsieur. When my people so rudely 



At the Barricade 207 

interrupted your journey yonder, I struck up the 
pistol that was billeting you for a longer journey. 

Marquis. And to be remembered kindly! How 
gratifying ! 

Yvonne. If you put it so. Frankly, I reasoned 
thus, Monsieur. The chances are I travel the dark 
road within an hour or two. God save me from 
meeting him upon it! So I ensured your remaining 
behind ! 

Marquis. Truly woman varies ! This was hardly 
your attitude two and twenty years ago, my dear ! 

Yvonne. Are you sure you knew my attitude, 
Monsieur? My action — yes, — my motive — no! Van- 
ity has ever been your weakness. Monsieur. I have 
sometimes thought you may have fancied I loved 
you! 

Marquis. The fancy is pardonable, perhaps, 
when one considers that yonder stands — our son ! 

Laurent. My mother ! Claire ! God ! God ! 

Claire. Laurent! Her courage is in your 
eyes! 

Yvonne. As you say — our son. Your servant. 
Monsieur, our son! We were speaking of love, I 
think? Monsieur, all my life it has been my whim 
to leap barricades. Two and twenty years ago I 
dreamed my youth and beauty might lend me wings 
to leap the barricade of rank. I thought to be a 
Marquise, Monsieur! Hence, — our son! You were 



2o8 At the Barricade 

too clever for me ; for the first and last time a barri- 
cade baffled me. But love — Monsieur, I am a woman 
of taste ! 

Thymette. She is magnificent! 

{Laurent advances to Yvonne^ and begins to 
unMnd her arms, straining at the twists of the 
ropes. He is tensely ivhite.) 

Marquis. What are you doing? 

Claire. His duty, Monsieur — how should you 
comprehend it? 

Yvoi^NE. Why do you release me? 

Laurent. You are my mother. 

YvoNKE. You know what I am? 

Laurent. You are my mother. 

YvoKNE. Do you know what you do, boy, I say? 
You free the best hated woman in all Paris, — the 
woman on whose head your army sets a price ! 

Laurent. You are my mother. 

Yvonne. In loosing me you put the ropes on 
your own wrists. It is treason. 

Laurent. You are my mother. 

Yvonne. Eeflect, if you can. Do you count on 
this man's favor when you stand cashiered — dis- 
graced — your sword snapped before your face? You 
do not know this man ! 

Laurent. You are my mother. 

Yvonne. Do you think this girl will reach her 



At the Barricade 209 

hand to you across prison bars? You do not know 
our nobility ! 

Laurejsit. You are my mother. 

{He hreaks the last knot. She stands chafing 
her wrists, red from the ropes, and surveys 
him, keenly and curiously.) 

YvojSTN'E. And for what I am you will give up 
honor — name — love — life? 

Laueekt. For my mother. 

YvoNKE. Tudieu! {With a short laugh.) But I 
doubt after all if you are the son of the Marquis ! 
Will you give me one thing more, having given me 
so much? Monsieur my son, — may I kiss you? 

Laurent. If you will — my mother ! 

( Yvonne throws her left arm alout LaurenVs 
neck, and kisses him full and long on the lips. 
With her right hand she swiftly and softly 
takes his pistol from his lelt. Releasing him^ 
she faces him, holding the pistol behind her.) 

YvOKiSTE. Turn for turn — I have given it all my 
life! Why should I change policy because the last 
turn is a good one? Monsieur my son, you freed me, 
— I free you ! {She shoots herself — staggering hack- 
luard.) I have leaped my last — barricade! {Falls 
backward across the barricade.) 

Laurent. {Rushing to her.) Woman! 



2IO At the Barricade 

Claire. Nay, Laurent! — Mother! 

( TJiere is a crash of drums without; fusil- 
lades and cries. Kadoc rushes in.) 

'*^ Kadoc. Monsieur the Lieutenant, the emeute 
rises again ! They will try to make this barricade ! 

Laurent. Claire! In God's name, let me make 
you safe! 

Claire. I am safe beside you, my Laurent! 
There is one more shot in your pistol. (She raises 
the pistol that has fallen from Yvonne'' s hand.) 

{There comes a mad rush of revolutionaires 
and soldiers. The Petroleuses are released. 
Jeanne cries ''^Pierre! my Pierre! " as a 
stalwart soldier catches her iii his arms. He 
hears her off, fainting. Thymette rushes 
forward, a hnife in her hand. She Icneels to 
Claire, catching and hissing the hem of her 
gown. ) 

Thymette. This to you. Mademoiselle! {She 
buries her knife in the Marquis'' s side.) And this to 
you, Monsieur! Follow me, my women! 

{She rushes out, the fight sivirling after her. 
The Marquis stands quite erect, for a moment, 
the hand that holds the lace handkerchief 
pressed hard against his wounded side. He 
removes it, and glances at it, his face clouded 



At the Barricade 2ii 

hy a slight spasm, as he sees it is stained with 
his life-Uood. He opens his hand and the 
handkerchief flutters down to the floor.) 
Marquis. Apparently one does not — miss — the 

cue for — one's — exit. {He staggers and falls; with 

his face upturned. ) 

{Laurent rushes lack, the flag in his hand. 
He plants the flag on the barricade. He 
hastens to Claire, catching her hand and kiss- 
ing it, in an ecstasy of passionate relief at 
finding her safe. She points to the dead 
Marquis. He comes doiun, his stvord in hand, 
and stands looking at his dead father, in a 
kijid of daze. Claire comes softly down, and 
slips her hand into his. He lifts his hat from 
his head, as if unconsciously, lookiiig down 
still at the dead man.) 

(Curtain.) 



Galatea of the Toy-Shop 

A FANTASY IN ONE ACT 



Galatea of the Toy-Shop 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Oscar Schwarz, a German toy-maker. 
Galatea, a doll. 

The place is Germany. The time is the present. 
The scene is Oscar's work-room. 

The scene is the interior of the tuorJc-room of a 
German toy-shop. Across the back, there runs a low, 
broad latticed windoio. A large ivorh-hench, lach^ C. 
is littered loith all sorts of tools. Toys of all sorts 
are scattered about the roo7n, ad lib. The furiiishing, 
rough a7id simple, is as foreign in suggestion as pos- 
sible. At the R. C. is a wooden stand, with a railed 
top, from which hang calico curtains: concealiiig the 
figure luithiii. On the tuall, R. is a telephone, which 
rings, as the curtain is rising. Oscar Schivarz is 
215 



2i6 Galatea of the Toy-Shop 

seated on a stool, R. C, worlcing busily at a steel 
spring. He is in the blouse of a workman. He is 
humming or ivhistling the last few bars of Die 
Lorelei which is the curtain music. 

OscAE. Dii Lieber! But I do not think I have 
the curve yet ! And until I get the curve, this spring 
that is to make the voice of my most beautiful of 
dolls, — my queen of dolls — {With an adoring gesture 
toivard the closed curtains.) her voice will be like 
the squawk of a crow who has eaten of green apples ! 
It is her only fault — that voice ! I have the perfect- 
est doll in the world, when this spring gets the true 
curve, and my doll says "Papa!" "Mamma!" like 
a cherub, and not like a crow after green apples! 
{The telephone rings again.) Tausend teufels ! I was 
just getting the curve, and now I must lose it to 
scream with some fool, at this accursed box in the 
wall! {Re angrily lays doimi his luorh, and goes to 
the tele])hone.) Hello, thou, Fritz? No, I cannot 
come to the beer-drinking to-night ! My doll is not 
finished: and the prize competition for the doll- 
makers of all Germany, opens but two days off! For 
my doll she is all but her voice the perfectest doll 
in Germany: anil her voice — ah! my Fritz! Her 
voice — it is to hear it, as if the devil's dentist sat 
astride thy front teeth with a saw ! It is her voice- 
spring that I curve at this moment. Wherefore I 



Galatea of the Toy-Shop 217 

can have neither beer nor thee! Yes, if my doll take 
not the prize, I am ruined. Yes, my Fritz! My 
father is a pig and the son of pigs — What is it thou 
sayest? The fatlier of pigs? Get thee where beer 
cannot quench thirst! Yes, my father will cut me 
from his house, if I bring not home a wife instantly ! 
A wife! I! Better the lost prize, and the river! 
Good luck, my Fritz! Drink many steins to the 
voice of my doll. (He hangs up the telephone and 
reticrns to his worh.) A wife! Who frowns on the 
beer, and demands that the friends of the husband 
wear clean collars ! A wife ! Pig of a father ! {He 
crosses to the standi and lifts the curtain at the hach^ 
so that the audience cannot see loithin.) Now let us 
once more try the spring! In it goes! Ah, sure the 
curve is exact. Now let us touch it, and hear the 
sweet little voice say '* Mamma!" {He makes a 
motion as touchi^ig a spring, and there comes from 
toithin the curtain a raucous and ear-splitting yell 
of '"''Mar-mar!!!'''' — He jumps wildly hack.) Donner 
und Blitzen ! What have I done ! It is thrice worse 
than before ! It is the nightmare dream after pork ! 
{From within, the voice repeats '"'•Mar -mar!'''' in a 
gradual diminuendo, hut alivays most discordantly, 
until it dies away in a hoarse arfd jerky whisper.) 
That spring is in on the wrong side up! It is 
bewitched, that spring! What shall I do? 0, me 
miserable — and the competition opens but two days 



2i8 Galatea of the Toy-Shop 

off! {The telephone rings again.) Donnerwetter ! 
Once more! {Rushes madly to the telephone.) Hello! 
I will talk with nobody! Yes, I am Oscar Schwarz! 
But I am not here ! I am away ! I am dead ! Since 
yesterday I am dead : and the doctors say I am to 
speak to no one, for the fear of contagion! Eh? 
It is yon, my father? Well, then, I am not dead: 
bnt I soon will be, if I am not left alone to finish the 
accursed voice-spring of my doll! A wife? My 
father, I have sought no wife! I will have no wife! 
Furthermore — yes, to-morrow is my birthday — and 
my death-day it shall also be, if you leave me not 
alone with the spring for the voice of my doll ! If I 
find me a wife before to-morrow, I shall have the 
half of my heirship — and if I find one not, you cut 
me off forever? Cut me off, then, father of a pig! — 

I mean, son of a pig! Cut me off ! ! Cut me {He 

jumps bach from the telephone^ as from an explosion. ) 
But cut me not off with a bang that destroys the last 
ear Heaven gave me ! {He returns the receiver to the 
hook., rubMng his ear dolefully.) It is ended! Unless 
I can shape the spriug to give my doll the cherub's 
voice to match her cherub's face, I am a done man! 
{He approaches the stand., and stands with his hand 
on tlte front curtain.) Let me once look on thee — 
perfectest result of mine art! Let me gaze on thy 
face with its red and white — on thy little hands, that 
I have made to extend themselves as if they greeted 



Galatea of the Toy-Shop 219 

the world — on thy tiny feet, that I have made to 
carry thee, as if thou thyself did guide them! {As 
he speaks, he sloivly draius the curtains. Galatea is 
discovered on the pedestal. Her coloring is that of a 
dainty doll. She is in a luhite lace-trimmed petti- 
coat., rather short, shoiuing pretty, high-heeled slip- 
pers; she has a low-neched bodice, as it might he a 
corset-cover, or the zvaist of a che^nise; the effect of 
leijig cdl dressed, except the outer dress.) Ah, vision 
that thou art! How shall I dress thee, when the 
spring is rightly in its place and thou art complete? 
Shall it be the dress of a fine Paris dame, that I have 
yon? (As he turns his face toivard his worTc-tahle, 
her face turns too, imseen hy him, in the same direc- 
tion; hut mechanically and sloivly, as if a spring 
tuorked stiffly.) Or shall it be the little gown of a 
dear German house-mistress? In either thou wilt be 
adorable, thou perfectest of dolls ! (Before he again 
looks at her, she has ttirned her head to its original 
positio7i.) In any dress how lovesome thou wilt seem! 
How the so happy child to whom thou wilt belong 
when Christmas comes, will kiss those perfect lips! 
I all but wish I were that child! Nay — no one sees! 
I will be as that child, and taste if thy lips be as 
sweet as they seem ! (Re kisses her. Her eyes move 
from side to side. She smiles, and makes a few 
jerky ynotions, as if coming gradually alive. He 
starts hack, in terror and amaze.) 



220 Galatea of the Toy-Shop 

Galatea. {Speaking in the same raucous yell, 
as that in which she spohe, behind the curtain.) Do 
that, yet once again! 

OscAE. Mine Heaven! She speaks! Yet speak- 
ing it is not : for the spring of her stomach is upside 
down! 

Galatea. Do it yet again — again! 

Oscar. (Stammeri7ig .) Do — what? 

Galatea. How know I what you call it? This! 
(Purses her lips as for a hiss.) It brought me 
awake — that: but I would be aivaher! — again! 

Oscar. Speak no more, for the pity of me! I 
will kiss thee ten times, — it is no great penance! but 
in mercy cease that crow-scream ! 

(He hisses her again; she smiles., and begins 
to jerhily descend from her pedestal.) 

Galatea. It is not easily that I come ! 

(Slie pauses ivith her foot in mid-air., tvith 
a hich-lihe motion., as if the spring for a 
moment refused to tvorh; then, gaining control 
of herself jerkily comes down from out of the 
stand.) 
Galatea. Something stiffs me! Can't you un- 
stiff me? (Sharply — as he stands in a daze.) You 
made me, — didn't 3^ou? 
Oscar. I suppose so! 
Galatea. Then un- stiff me! My arms — they 



Galatea of the Toy-Shop 221 

will not work at all ! {She abruptly stretches out 07ie 
arm, hittifig him so that he reels.) Ah, yes! The 
arms work more better than I thought — better than 
the legs ! {She makes as if to hick; he precipitately 
hacks away.) 

Oscar. You need not be anxious — you're less 
stiff than most young women I know ! 

Galatea. Am I a young woman? 

Oscar. Well, yes — partly! 

Galatea. What do you mean by * 'partly"? 

{Her voice throughout this scene is very 
queer; alternating between a sudden raucous 
yell, and a hoarse whisper; loith as many 
sudden and droll variations as possible.) 

Oscar. Well, you are a young woman, — and you 
aren't, — you know! 

Galatea. How aren't I? I will be a young 
woman! I came awake on purpose to be a young 
woman ! (She bursts into the queerest possible laugh.) 

my soul! My soul! My inside is made wrong! 

1 could cry loudly because I am only partly a young 
woman ! — and I can only do — so — instead ! ( With a 
repetition of the queer laugh.) Tell me why — why — 
I am only partly a young woman! 

Oscar. Well — for one thing — your voice isn't — 

isn't 

Galatea. Don't all young women speak like me? 



222 Galatea of the Toy-Shop 

{Rising to a sudden, calliope-lilce shrieJc, on the last 
luord.) 

Oscar. The Lord forbid! 

Galatea. You made me — well, then, why didn't 
you make me right? Can't you oil me, or some- 
thing? Maybe I'm dry! 

Oscar. Donnerwetter ! Maybe that's it! {He 
runs to his table, and fetches down a tankard of 
beer.) Here! Drink quickly! 

Galatea. What is that? 

Oscar. I made her, — and she asks — What is that! 
It is beer ! 

Galatea. What is — beer? 

Oscar. We do not describe beer : — we drink it ! 

Galatea. 0! It is to drink? {She sips it 
daintily; takes down the can, for a moment, with an 
expression of amazed and ecstatic delight; and then 
hastily raises the can to her lips again, and drains 
its last drop. ) More ! — Again some beer ! — Much, — 
much — more beer ! 

{Her voice is queer on the first word or two; 
hut immediately softens, and she ends in a 
siueet and girlish tone.) 

Oscar. A miracle! The beer has turned the 
spring right side up ! Her voice is mellow as honey 
from the comb ! 

Galatea. More beer ! Much — much more beer ! 



Galatea of the Toy-Shop 223 

Oscar. Not now; you are new to it — and your 
voice — well, there is such a thing as beer making us 
too mellow! 

Galatea. I foresee I shall be dry and scream 
again. And am I now really a young woman? 

Oscar. Well — as to your dress 

Galatea. Do not young women wear dresses? 

{She makes as if to loose the land of her 
petticoat. He hastily stops her.) 

Oscar. Yes — yes — indeed, I may say young 
women wear — rather more dress ! 

Galatea. Very well, then — you made me. 
Where are the rather more dress? Produce the 
rather more dress ! Surely you have the rather more 
dress — if you made me to be a young woman ! 

Oscar. Don't let it hurt your feelings — but I am 
afraid I made you to be a doll ! 

Galatea. Is there such a great difference 
between a young woman and a doll? 

Oscar. Truly, that depends. I have known a 
good many young women that were dolls; but I 
never before have known a doll that was a young 
woman. 

Galatea. I prefer to be a young woman. Dolls 
are not kissed — at least, they are not nicely kissed, 
as I was, just now. Dolls cannot drink beer! Ah! 
Beer! (With an affectionate gesture toward the 



224 Galatea of the Toy-Shop 

tankard.) Decidedly, I will be a young woman. 
Produce the rather more dress ! 

Oscar. I — I had not yet decided what you were 
to wear. 

Galatea. Now I am awake, I will myself decide 
that. A young woman need not be long awake to 
decide what to wear. 

Oscar. I had thought to dress you as a French 
demoiselle — perhaps as a little German hausfrau. 
See ! Here is the one dress and here is the other. 

{He goes to his table, and takes from a box, 
the two costumes. Both must be correct; the 
French gown dainty and chic; the German one 
pretty and simple; but both must be made on 
the princess model, in a single piece, so that 
they can be easily slipped on.) 
Galatea. {Catching at the French gown.) Ah, 
that is of France. I know, for the French doll that 
stood beside me was so dressed ! I wonder, did she 
come awake, that French doll? Du Lieber! {Turn- 
ing to him in an explosion of suspicion.) You did 
not kiss that French doll? 

Oscar. I sold her. I never kissed a doll but thee. 
Galatea. Nor a young woman? 
Oscar. {Hastily.) You are dry, perhaps? 
Another mug of beer? 

{He hands her the beer, which she drinks 
ecstatically, as before.) 



Galatea of the Toy-Shop 225 

Galatea. It is good. But you will not kiss 
another doll — nor another young woman ! Now put 
on my gown. {Holds out her arms stiffly.) 

Oscar. {Fastens the goiun rapidly hut 'awk- 
wardly.) I am not wise in dressing dolls. 

Galatea. Nor young women? 

Oscar. May Heaven forbid! 

Galatea. Now I am finished — and I am very 
good to look at ! 

Oscar. How are you sure of that? There is no 
mirror. 

Galatea. There are two mirrors that tell me so — 
this mirror, and that mirror ! (She touches his eyes^ 
softly, one after the other.) What other mirror does 
a young woman need, than the eyes of a young man? 

Oscar. Lieber Himmel ! And but an hour ago, 
thou wast a doll ! 

Galatea. I have been kissed since then. More- 
over, I am French now ; and French young women 
come early very wide awake. 

Oscar. Why that? 

Galatea. Ah, in Paris the world is wide awake — 
night and day it wakes ! Watch me, and see what 
like is Paris! (In the speech that follows, she imper- 
sonates as fully as possible, every scene of tvhich she 
is speaking.) The Paris of the morning — the sun is 
on the white pavements — they are new -sprinkled, and 
so clean — so clean! The grass is fresh in the parks — 



226 Galatea of the Toy-Shop 

the bonnes, the pretty nurse-maids, in their pert caps 
and big aprons — they wheel the perambulators with 
the rosy babies. But they are not looking at the 
babies — they are looking at the gend'armes, who 
march by, so natty and so proud, twisting the little 
moustache — as thus. And the bonnes are looking — 
thus — from under the lashes. '*Good morning, 
Mademoiselle!" **A fine day, Monsieur!" "Are 
all mademoiselle's promenades taken in company with 
this encumbering machine?" {Indicating the imag- 
inarij per ambulator. ) "JSTo, truly. Monsieur, this 
most afflicting infant is sometimes asleep in her 
creche!" "And then. Mademoiselle, there may be 
opportunity." "Truly, as you say. Monsieur, there 
may be opportunity." And so they pass, — he with 
his little moustache, she with her lashes. Noon, 
then — the sun so hot and strong on the big, splendid 
boulevard. Hark! From the Arc de Triomphe, 
hear the crash of the trumpets — the drums — the drums 
— r-r-r -rub-a-dub-dub! ta-ra-ra-ta-ra ! See the flash 
of the bayonets ! How straight they march ! One — 
two — one — two ! — tramp ! tramp ! For death or glory ! 
Aux armes, citoyens ! {Singi7ig a bar of the Marsel- 
laise.) Tramp! tramp! Tra-ra-ra! Eub-a-dub-dub! 
(She imitates the effect of the music and the tramping 
growing fainter and dying away.) And pouf ! The 
soldiers are also gone. And bye and bye it is night. 
The streets are ablaze ! How the glow streams from 



Galatea of the Toy-Shop 227 

the doors of the Grand Opera! Within, the stage is 
set for great Wagner night — it is the moment when 
Brunhilda defies Criemhilda, — how they scream and 
storm! {She imitates^ ad lih.^ the scene betiveeii the 
ivomen, ending in Criemhilda's death.) After the 
theatre — well, if one has a fancy to see a pretty 
dance, — a dance where the slipper leaves nothing to 
be guessed of itself. {She imitates a high hick.) 
Pouf ! It is dawn before we know — dawn — br-r-r-r — 
{With a simulated shive7\) How cold the dawn- 
wind is ! How cold the light, after the glare of the 
cafe lights ! How terrible is the dawn light ! How 
much the dawn light knows ! What are the white 
women coming down the street in the grey light? 
They wear white veils that stir in the dawn-wind as 
the lily's petals stir. And theirs are lily faces — 
lilies in the bud ! Uncover as they go by ! They go 
to their first communion — with the souls of lilies, and 
the dawn-light on their hair! Do you see who is 
watching them — standing far back in the shadows? 
It is the dancing woman of the cafe — the woman with 
the rouge and the bold eyes and the foot that danced 
too high — see her eyes, as she watches — how haggard 
they are ! Do you hear what she is muttering to her- 
self? ''I was once like them! I was once like them! 
And now — ! There is but one cleansing for such 
as I — ^let me to the river ! Let me to the river !" 
(Oscar catches her as she almost falls.) 



228 Galatea of the Toy-Shop 

Oscar. Cover that dress! Cover that dress, I 
say! What do you know of Paris? You shall not 
wear the dress of Paris ! Cover it, I say, with the 
honest dress of a good German wife! {He aids her 
to slip on over her gay French gotvn, the simple goion 
of a German girl of the middle class. ^ There! Gott 
eei dank ! You are of that evil life no longer ! 

Galatea. Nay, now I am of another land. It is 
home that folds me in — it is almost time for the 
goodman to be here for the supper ! {She makes as 
if setting a table, and feeding a fire.) How quietly 
the little one sleeps ! {She hends over an imaginary 
cradle, very gently lifting an imaginary hahy in her 
arms.) Sleep, Kindlein! Ah, sleep! The child's 
home is the mother's breast! Sleep! {She rocks the 
imaginary hahy to and fro, crooning to it. Then she 
lays it hack in the cradle.) Lieber Himmel! It is 
his step ! He is here ! {She rushes to Oscar, catch- 
ing him in her arms.) Welcome! It is thou! Thou 
art at home ! 

Oscar. Ay, indeed I am at home! Nay, thou 
shalt not leave my arms! 'Twas I kissed thee awake! 
Thou art mine — and no other shall make my home 
— only thou ! Only thou ! 

Galatea. Ay, it was thou kissed me awake, — 
and when thou kissest me no more, then let me sleep 
indeed ! 

(CURTAIK.) 



Appendix 



NOTES ON THE PLAYS. 

It may be that those who hereafter take part in the 
plays included in the present volume, will find it of 
interest to know by whom the plays were originally 
produced: and what players have heretofore inter- 
preted their characters. Hence the notes appended. 

PO' WHITE TRASH 

Was first produced by Henry Woodruff, — for whom 
the part of "Drent Dury" was written, — at the 
Bijou Theatre, Boston, at a special matinee, given on 
March 25, 1897. On this occasion, Mr. Woodruff 
appeared as "Deej^t"; Miss Minnie Dupree as 
*'Cakol"; Miss Maud Hosford as '*Suke"; Mr. 
Eugene Ormonde as *' Judge Page"; Mr. Joseph 
Brennen as "Dr. Patn-e"; Mr. William B. Smith 
as "Zep"; Miss Eachel Noah as "Sal"; and Miss 
Mabel Dixey as "Milly." 

229 



230 Appendix 

The play was again given by Mr. "Woodruff, at the 
Lyceum Theatre, New York, on April 22, 1898. 
Mr. Woodruff again appeared as *'Deen^t" and Miss 
Ilosford as "Suke"; the "Sal" was Miss Ina Ham- 
mer; the "Carol," Miss Jessie Mackaye; the "Dr. 
Payne," Mr. Eugene Jepson; the "Judge Page," 
Mr. Geo. Fullerton; the "Milly," Miss Helen 
Lowell; the "Zep," Mr. John Bunny. 

The play was used professionally by Mr. Daniel 
Frawley, on his Western tour of the season of 
1898-99. ; "Drekt" was then played by Mr. Alfred 
Hickman. 

m FAR BOHEMIA 

Was first produced at a benefit performance, at the 
Bijou Theatre, Boston, on the evening of January 
18, 1898. On this occasion, "Karen" was played 
by Miss Minnie Dupree; "Alec" by Mr. Horace 
Lewis; and "Mrs. Pennypacker" by Miss Kate 
Ryan. 

A COMEDIE ROYALL 

Was first produced at the Bijou Theatre, Boston, by 
Mr. Henry Woodruff, on March 25, 1897. Mr. 
Woodruff appeared as "Royall Hartwynd"; Mr. 
Eugene Ormonde as "Sir John Hartwynd"; Miss 
Maude Banks as "Queen Elizabeth"; Miss Minnie 
Dupree as "Phyllida"; Mr. Ira Hards as "Lord 



Appendix 231 

Faethokne"; and Mr. William B. Smith as "Sir 
Edwaed Ayis." 

Mr. Woodruff produced the play later, at the 
Lyceum Theatre, New York, on April 22, 1898. On 
this occasion he again appeared as "Royall"; Miss 
Mary Shaw was the ** Queen"; and Miss Mary 
Young, the "Phyllida." 

AT THE BARRICADE 

Was originally produced at a benefit performance, 
at the Hollis Street Theatre, on April 28, 1898. Mr. 
William Farnum was the "Laurent"; Mrs. Emma 
Sheridan-Fry, the "Yvonne"; Miss Carrie Keeler 
the "Claire." 

The play was later presented by Mr. Franklin 
Sargent, at a Pupils' Matinee of the American 
Academy of Dramatic Arts, December 14, 1899. 

A BIT OF INSTRUCTION 

Was first produced by Mr. Henry Woodruff, at a 
special performance at Brattee Hall, Cambridge, on 
February 25, 1898. On this occasion, Mr. Woodruff 
appeared as "Despard"; and Mr. Harry Gay as 
"Newbury." 

The play was given by Mr. Woodruff, at the 
Lycoum Theatre, New York, on April 22, 1898. 



232 Appendix 

Mr. Woodruff then played "Newbuky," and Mr. 
Eobert Edeson was the "Despakd." 

The play was used by Mr. Woodruff professionally 
for an extended vaudeville tour, in the autumn of 
1898. 

EOHAN THE SILENT 

Was written for the late Alexander Salvini ; and was 
accepted by him to be used in connection with "The 
Fool's Revenge"; which it was his intention to 
include in his repertoire, in his season of 1896-97. 
It was produced by him at the Tremont Theatre, 
Boston, May 28, 1896. It is notable that "Rohan" 
was the last role ever created by Mr. Salvini. The 
cast on this occasion was a memorable one : including 
Mr. Salvini as "Rohak"; Miss Ida Conquest as 
"Isobel"; Mr. Eugene Ormonde as "Sie Philip"; 
Mr. George Fawcett as "Sir Robert; Mr. Joseph 
Francoeur as "Godwin"; Mr. Albert Briinning as 
"Gobyn"; Mr. Franklyn Roberts as "Beowulf"; 
Mr. Eugene Sanger as "Godfrey"; Mr. Wright 
Kramer as "John"; and Miss Rachel Noah as the 
"Nurse." 

"A Song at the Castle," "Galatea of the Toy- 
Shop," and "The End of the Way," have not yet 
had production. 



PRINTED BY R. R. DONNELLEY 

AND SONS COMPANY AT THE 
LAKESIDE PRESS, CHICAGO, ILL. 



m 4 1909 



